Cross My Heart
by This is your Heichou speaking
Summary: Random Harry Potter drabbles, including crossovers. Slash, Harry-centric.
1. Sanctuary

**Sanctuary**

Word Count: 791

Pairing: Harry Potter/Theodore Nott

Beta: Rei

Warnings: Underage sex, kinda? They're in sixth year, probably, so.

* * *

They would meet in abandoned classrooms and hidden alcoves, quietly standing in corners as the sun went down and their fingers entwined. They spoke rarely, didn't feel the need to proclaim their love to one another constantly, but they didn't need to. They _knew_.

The nights slowly became colder, darker, but Harry didn't mind. Why should he, when soft lips touched his own, or when he lost himself to the sensation of large, warm palms running down his sides? Why should he, when the touches sent electricity down his spine and Harry was so euphoric he could barely remember his name? He was much too preoccupied with kissing back, the room slowly heating as he was pressed down and _fucked_ , desperate fingers rushing to touch as much skin as possible and mouths gasping into each other.

" _Theo!_ " he groaned, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched. The other boy laughed softly, grabbing his thighs and pulling him further into himself, and Harry's mouth opened in a silent scream. All he could hear was Theo's hard breathing, his blood rushing through his ears, a strong heartbeat; he didn't know whose, and the rustling of clothing still not completely removed. It was always so intense, so charged with passion and desire and _want_ , and Harry sometimes wondered how it was possible he could feel this much all at once without exploding.

The wall was hard against his back, but he barely noticed. He would probably have bruises tomorrow, and yet he couldn't _care_. All he wanted was more of _this_ , Theo moving into him like he'd die if he couldn't get enough of him, like he was his entire world, and Harry had never felt so desirable in his life. Never felt so loved as he did when Theo leaned down to kiss him softly, gently, instead of heavily, or when he slipped a hand behind his head, so it wouldn't bang against the wall. He'd never felt as happy as he did when his lover finally lay him down, never breaking eye contact as he slung an arm over his waist and another under him.

Harry moved to lean his cheek on his shoulder, eyes closing peacefully. They panted as they calmed, and kissed, and Harry traced words neither of them said but both of them felt, slowly, on Theodore's chest.

"I know," he whispered, taking hold of his hand and pressing his fingertips against his mouth. "Me too."

Harry smiled against sweat-salty skin.

This was their sanctuary - not a place, or a thing, but little pockets of togetherness in a sea of time. Outside them, he was Harry Potter, saviour and Boy-Who-Lived. In the public's eye, he was whatever their greedy hearts desired, and if he dared to be anything more, he was condemned for it.

And Theo was not Theo when he wasn't with Harry. He was Theodore Nott Jr, Slytherin and pureblood heir, and they were two such different people they'd never associate with each other, never mind care. Never mind _love_. And yet here they were.

Theo was like a balm to his wounded heart. Harry had seen so much, lost so much, and still he was expected to stand strong and smile despite the crushing pain and exhaustion. He was so tired of being somebody, constantly, that sometimes it seemed to him that Theo was the only thing keeping him up. He would have drowned a long time ago if it hadn't been for the taller boy, but that was okay. A part of Harry imagined that he'd have _let_ himself, were it not that he had someone to try for. And Theo was always so soft, so gentle, that Harry thought it'd be okay if he broke. Theo wouldn't judge, or cry, or rage. He would merely pick up all the pieces and help Harry put himself back together, no matter how long it took.

They were content like this, silent gazes and quiet affection, and there was no need for anybody else to know. Nobody else needed to know that Harry's heart hurt a little every time he caught Theo's smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, or that Theo had a habit of playing with Harry's hair when they cuddled. They didn't need to know about the few words, whispered between their bodies as if to shield them from curious ears, because it was something that was purely for _them_.

And maybe there would be tears in the future, or pain, because Harry couldn't imagine spending his life with anybody else, but when it came they would be ready and strong and loud, and they would stand together. But for now, both of them had suffered enough, and these moments, moments of recuperation and healing, were enough.


	2. Drown

**Drown**

Words: 1,770

Crossover: Supernatural

Pairing: John Winchester/Harry Potter

Beta: Rei

Warnings: Attempted suicide

* * *

When he had made the decision to jump into the waters, he'd expected many things. None of them were what he saw now.

The sea was cold as frost and just as harsh, and black enough that it may as well have been ink. Black enough that, even with a full moon, he could barely see his own fingers when he spread them an inch from his face. But he could see the eyes.

They were green and otherworldly, and suddenly he felt fear like he'd never imagined, cold fingers of dread gripping onto his heart, turning his blood to ice.

He wasn't afraid of death, or he'd never have jumped, but this.

This was a worse fate.

He must've been drowning, he thought vaguely as he caught a flash of sharp, white teeth. But it didn't matter much at this moment. He had only wanted to die, sick of life and all its shit, but now he imagined it preferable to whatever was down here.

This was a monster.

And yet...

He had seen these eyes before. Felt these hands upon his shoulders and tasted the teeth that gleamed in the dark. In another life, he had _known_ the monster before him, and it had not been a monster, but something beautiful and desirable. Something he'd loved.

And now there was stone in his stomach, pulling him down just as efficiently as any anchor could, and he remembered. This was _his_ doing. _He_ had hurt this creature, made it into what it was, and he was _guilty_.

He thought he was crying now, but who could tell, with water in every direction for an eternity? And even if someone could distinguish the tears from the seawater that they mixed in, who would care? Who, when he deserved all that came to him now?

"I'm so sorry!" he tried to shout, to scream. Water filled his throat in a rush, a wave of salt and the freezing, freezing cold, and suddenly he could feel nothing but the cold, for it was in him, a part of him. It was in his brain and his heart, spreading and reaching until there was not a part of him that didn't feel it so acutely that it was the only fact of life, of _existing_.

And yet, there were warm fingers that felt like a brand caressing his jaw, and lips like fire resting upon his brow. What was this purgatory he'd landed in, where he experienced both the heights of pleasure and the most excruciating of pain all at once? How was he still alive, how was his body able to bear all of this _sensation_ , and not just _stop_ from the intensity of it all?

And yet he still lived, and though he didn't breathe he barely noticed the burn in his lungs as the monster touched him, and was it really a monster? It was beautiful, a terrible, terrifying beauty and grace that he knew could kill, but it hadn't always been that. _He_ had turned him into this, had turned the boy he loved (soft smiles and sweet words) into something so foreign.

He was moving now, he knew. Whether up or down, he couldn't tell, but he was being pulled by his once lover, his _siren_ , and he was helpless to follow.

And then he was breathing in the fresh, cool air of the night as his head broke the surface, and he could see, now, mountains among hills in the distance, and little lights where men and women sunk into warm beds and, perhaps, each other.

He could see green eyes, and they were so recognisable now, so familiar he wondered how he could ever have forgotten, when these eyes and lips and soul had once being (still were) the center of his universe.

"Harry," he whispered. His voice barely left his throat, so hoarse was it, but he was breathing, and alive, and he didn't regret it. Didn't hate him, _Harry_ , for saving his life when he was trying so desperately to end it, though he should. And perhaps, were it anyone else, he would. But he couldn't hate Harry, not when he loved him so (not when the guilt still lay heavy in his stomach).

The boy just smiled, eyes sad and mouth turned done in a melancholy pout. He pulled him back to shore in complete silence, pale fingers wrapped around his wrist and they waded, as easily as if this was just a lake, or even a swimming pool.

The sea was calm up here, its inky blackness a steady void, small waves lapping tamely at the shingle on the beach. Its surface did not belie the torrent underneath, and had he not being down there barely a minute ago, he couldn't have guessed the violence and force it was capable off.

They did not move to the sand, but instead travelled towards the rocks and caves where they could remain out of sight even on dry land.

He pulled himself up, his breathing harsh even against the sound of the sea, and sat on a relatively flat rock. He was soaked through, and the smallest breeze made him feel like he was freezing, but the night itself was relatively warm so he knew he'd be fine. He turned his eyes towards the boy still in the water.

"Harry."

The boy said nothing. He did not move to get out of the water either, but merely stayed where he was, staring up at him. His chest was bare, but miraculously enough his skin was not pimpled with goosebumps as it would've been if he had been cold.

"Harry," he said again. "I. I thought you were dead."

His voice was tighter than he intended, and he winced at the somewhat accusatory tone in that statement. It wasn't Harry's fault, he _knew_ that. The boy had had no choice left. No choice but to leave.

Harry smiled again. He seemed so calm, so at peace. It made him feel angrier in turn, when it seems like Harry didn't care, but he merely frowned.

"John," he finally said, lowering his eyes sadly. "Not yet. You can't abandon them like this."

"Them?"

Harry frowned. "Sam and Dean, John. Your children."

And suddenly he felt so very ashamed as he realised he'd not even spared a thought for his own children this entire time. Not when he'd jumped, and not when Harry had saved him. The only family he had left, and he'd planned to leave them clueless and alone in a hopeless world. He opened his mouth to say something, but Harry was shaking his head.

"They need you still. You owe them, John Winchester. You owe them to stay alive."

Harry's eyes on him did not waver as he said this, nor as John frowned, angry and stubborn.

"And you get to preach it to me, huh," he growled, and no no no, that was not what he meant, he wanted to take it back so badly the moment it was put of his mouth and _why did he say that_? But the damage was done, and he watched, heart heavy (and the stone was still there, weighing him down from within), as Harry's eyes darkened in sorrow and anger, and John remembered the power Harry had, and how terrifying it truly could be.

Harry was not Harry anymore as he faced him now, any shred of humanity gone from his face as he glared the human down. He seemed taller than John, bigger even as he remembered how much smaller he _really_ was compared to John, and he seemed to wear the night like a cloak.

John had never felt so insignificant.

"You, John Winchester, are a coward." The voice was cold, its opinions facts and its requests orders. "You come here to die after you have ruined your own sons' lives. Karma does not allow it," his voice dropped lower. " _I_ won't allow it."

He sat there, wide eyes on the terrifying visage of his lover (no, not anymore, not for a long time) and hated himself for what he had done to him, to turn the constantly optimistic boy into _this_. Into a nightmare. He looked into the face of this boy, and he looked into the face of death.

Harry (was he really Harry anymore?) lowered his voice again, and said in a softer tone, "Don't imagine this is for you. You have had a chance at redemption, and maybe you'll be offered another. But your life is still of use in other places. So go."

Those words hurt more than he had expected. He wasn't Harry's priority, not anymore, and he knew that. He'd made his peace with it a long time ago, but it hurt nonetheless.

He sighed dejectedly and made to stand up, balancing precariously on the edge of the rocks. He didn't look away from Harry, who looked more human now, smiling tightly. He smiled in response, but it was bitter, and unhappy.

"I love you," he dared whisper. Harry didn't even blink, and he sighed again. That hurt too, but again he had expected that. He took a step back carefully, so as not to fall, but still didn't look away from the pale body in the water.

"You're right, of course. You always are. I was being selfish," he paused, as if to give Harry a chance to speak. The man didn't, so he carried on.

"I suppose my life doesn't even really belong to me anymore. I owe it. To them."

"You do. You had the responsibility to look after them, and you put them on this path. And so, you owe them." Harry blinked slowly and smiled softly, as if he wasn't aware of the effect his words had on John.

Again, not unexpected.

He took a breath. "So I'll do that. Go find them, help them."

"Save them," and then Harry looked impossibly sad. "Though I don't know if you even can, anymore."

John nodded awkwardly. "Right." His voice was soft, weak. He felt the sudden urge to jump back into the sea, but not in search of death, like before. He didn't, and instead dug his fingernails into his palm.

"Goodbye." Harry's eyes were almost luminescent in the dark, like they had their own light. Like they weren't human.

He didn't reply as he turned and moved slowly towards the beach, clothing still soaked. He didn't look back, and when he woke up in the back seat of his car the next day, he wondered if it had ever even happened.


	3. Unchanging

**Unchanging**

Words: 1,840

Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter

Beta: Rei

Warnings: None

* * *

They fought constantly. It made sense, after all they were completely incompatible - in personality, age, looks and Merlin knew what else. It was only logical, then, that they argued over absolutely everything, and that they were so different in the ways they expressed that anger.

When Harry lost his temper, he would explode and direct his emotions outwards, loud voice and violent gestures asking for Severus to just _understand_ , to give him a chance, and when Severus couldn't, he'd break down. Harry wore his heart on his sleeve, and that, more than anything, made it so much easier for Severus to hurt him. And he did, again and again, every time wondering why he did.

Severus was the complete opposite. He was older, wearier, and he became quieter in his rage. Colder. He spoke in low, threatening tones and said as many things as he could to just cut and humiliate and _hurt_ , so Harry couldn't see how much _he_ hurt, and how weak he'd really become. He was used to this, masking his feelings and thoughts under a blasé countenance and mocking sneer.

He would stand in the shadows that the corners of the room cast, hearing without listening as Harry shouted words of pain and anger, and he remained there, completely still even as Harry started crying, even as the urge to hold his lover became almost unbearable in its intensity. Because Severus was nothing like Harry, who was bold and loud and bright, and Harry wasn't white, just like he wasn't black. No, Harry was colour and life and a cool breeze on a hot day and Severus was grey, dull evenings, and who in their right minds would put them together?

He had always prided himself on his control and his ability to mask his worthless emotions in front of his worthless drunk of a father and the Dark Lord alike. Harry wasn't any different, he told himself. He wouldn't let his judgment be impeded, he promised himself. Every time, he'd pretend not to care, but who was he fooling?

And Severus could hold a grudge like no one else. Harry would come running back within a few hours, desperately trying to fix what he hadn't even broken so they could attempt, or pretend, to be happy again, but Severus wasn't that kind. He would remain angry for days, or - a handful of times - even weeks. He'd refuse to speak to Harry, not that Harry remained for long. No, Harry was a creature of freedom - he enjoyed his space, his ignorance, and he would run soon after the tears became unstoppable, and his voice refused to come out without hiccups.

It was then, in the fading light of the evening, that he would stand and wonder what it was that he was doing. Why, he wondered, did Harry always come back? Severus was bitter, old, and unkind. He held no romantic fantasies about how, perhaps, there was good inside him, or how he was a victim just like everyone else, misunderstood but innocent in the grand scheme of things. No, Severus knew that everything he'd done had been repaid in kind. An eye for an eye, a life for a life, and Severus had always been a purely selfish creature. He'd joined the Death Eaters for his own gain, and betrayed them for the same reasons. If anything, Harry was much more than he deserved, and yet he treated the boy so ungratefully. It was no wonder he was meant to suffer, but he hurt at the idea of Harry, who'd already gone through so much, being in anymore pain. And yet, here they were again, with him in a corner and Harry running down dark and empty streets in tears.

Often, he imagined himself leaving his lover, finding a silent house in the middle of nowhere, nothing but skies and quietly bubbling cauldrons but, once again, Severus was far too selfish.

He wanted Harry, wanted him in spite of his laughter and passion - or perhaps, he admitted, because of it. He would not leave Harry. No, Harry would leave him. Not today and not tomorrow, but one day, Harry would tire of him and walk out. Because Severus would never change.

He didn't know how.

He closed his eyes now, leaning his head back until it hit the wall behind him, and exhaled long and hard. He wanted to do more, wanted to scream and maybe break something, but this was all he'd allow himself. It was not his place, his luxury, to express the turmoil that reigned so freely in his chest. Of course, Harry had told him he was being ridiculous - he did that quite a bit - and asked him to be more open. Harry asked a lot of him, always with wide hopeful eyes and a tentative smile - asked for things like talking more and being truthful about his feelings, like they were easy, simple things. Like they weren't the most difficult things he could possibly ask of Severus.

But that was unfair too, Severus knew. It wasn't easy for Harry either, never had been, but Harry still did it. For _him_.

He couldn't remember what they'd been fighting about anymore. It was something small, he remembered thinking it completely insignificant, and he remembered telling Harry that, who had clearly not taken it well. The worst thing was that this time, Harry had threatened to leave him, to walk out of the door and never look back. He'd never done that before. He wouldn't actually leave, Severus knew, or at least not _this_ time. But it was coming now, he could feel it nearing. The day Harry snapped. The day it all became too much for him to cope with.

He had imagined it'd hurt, of course. He wasn't a doll or rock, and he could admit (at least to himself) when something would cause him pain. But it hurt a lot more than he'd anticipated, just this increased chance of Harry leaving him. What would happen, when his lover finally did? How would he cope, _survive_ , when it hurt so much already that his hands trembled with the force of it?

He wondered if this was even the right choice. That Granger girl, a while back now, had said something along those lines to him. ' _It's not your choice to make_ ', she'd muttered, lips pursed tightly in displeasure, _'stop trying to force him_ '. They didn't talk much now, of course. Harry and his friends, that was. That was Severus' fault too. He'd driven them away. They'd made him choose and Harry had chosen him.

Suddenly he felt incredibly ashamed. What was he doing, wallowing in self pity and whining, and about what? The most amazing man in the world _loving_ him? Being _devoted_ to him? What kind of despicable human was he, that he drove his young lover out of the house with scarcely a shirt on his back, in bloody _tears_? And in _this_ deplorable weather, no less. He may deserve the worst, but Harry certainly didn't. Was his self loathing so much more important than his love?

He didn't like to think so, and yet, thinking about it, there seemed no other conclusion. He walked slowly to the couch in the centre of the room and collapsed on it, staring despondently into the faint reflection in the glass of the coffee table. The sky grew ever dark, and as the rain grew heavier, Severus' worry grew with it.

He became antsy, as if suddenly realising that anything could have happened to his lover, and suddenly his mind began conjuring the worst images, visions of Harry unconscious in a ditch, of Harry lying bloody on a road or trapped in a corner by big, burly men, and he stood suddenly, cursing to himself as he rushed out of the door with nothing but his wand and the clothes on his back to shield against the elements.

He began to pace up and down the road, half walking, half jogging. He was just trying to decide which way to go when he saw a dark, solitary figure make its way down the street in his direction. It stopped suddenly, scarcely five feet away, and Severus realised who it was.

"Harry," he whispered. The man looked tiny, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin, and Severus was struck with the sudden thought that Harry was _thin_. He stared into surprised green eyes, and said the only thing to come to mind.

"You've lost weight."

Harry didn't say anything for a long while, staring at him as if he'd spoken in gobbledygook or some other such language, then laughed unpleasantly. Severus winced at the sound - he had never wanted to hear that kind of pain in Harry's voice, not again.

"I suppose I have," he replied softly. There was another pause, then Harry pulled his shoulders up. "What are you doing out here?"

The rain was loud in his ears, and yet he could still hear Harry clear as day. He reached out and took a hold of the delicate wrist. When there was no protest, he pulled his lover closer until there was barely a hair's breath of space between their chests. He could feel Harry's warmth, could feel his chest touch Severus' own every time he breathed in and the hot air of Harry's exhale on his collarbone.

He leaned down slightly, so their lips nearly touched. "I came looking for you."

Harry's eyes were wide and vulnerable. He didn't move away, but neither did he move closer. "Why?" he asked, and there were so many questions in that one word. Why hurt me? Why fight me? Why now? Did I do something wrong?

Severus closed his eyes for a second, trying to regain his composure. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and put everything he had into those two words, staring silently into green eyes in a desperate plea for forgiveness.

Harry looked away, tensing as if to decide whether or not to move away, but he remained frozen, and merely stood there, unsure, until Severus raised his hand and cupped his cheek.

"It's cold out," he said. "We should get inside." He said nothing else, nor did he kiss Harry or touch him elsewhere. It would not be welcome right now. He merely pulled him back into the shelter of their home, and closed the door behind him.

They would take time to work this out. Severus had been more than unkind, he'd been _cruel_ , and Harry had broken down so often he wondered if there were even any happy memory of this relationship left unscathed by all the negative emotions. But Severus was determined now, that they would work. He may be unworthy, but he would stay here, by Harry's side, for as long as the young man wanted him. Whether that was just for today, or an eternity.

' _I owe him that,_ ' he thought. ' _At the very least, that._ '


	4. Circumstance

**Circumstance**

Words: 806

Crossover: Pirates of the Caribbean

Pairing: Jack Sparrow/Harry Potter

Beta: None

Warnings: Sex. Not explicit, but still.

* * *

"Stay?" he whispered. The night was cold and still, but not quiet. They were a small ways from Tortuga - quiet enough to ignore the noise, but close enough to hear the occasional fight. The man beside him laughed softly.

"You know I can't, Harry," he replied, stretching out. His chest was damp with cooling sweat, and tanned from long days spent on a ship in the sun. He seemed relaxed, but Harry could feel the tensing in his shoulders as the subject was broached.

"I know," he whispered. He'd have said more, but it always ended in a fight, and he didn't particularly want to fight right now. Not when his lover would be leaving in a scant few hours. "Doesn't mean I won't miss you." Harry didn't look at his face, not wanting to meet the knowing brown eyes.

"No," he conceded. "I suppose it doesn't."

"Jack, I-" he cut off, his throat suddenly hurting. He didn't know what to say, so he just settled for playing with the man's beaded hair. "Never mind."

Jack frowned, looking over at him. Harry knew he was staring expectantly at him, waiting for Harry to meet his eyes, but he couldn't. Not when he felt so tired and lost. This wasn't what love was supposed to feel like, he told himself. It wasn't supposed to make him this weak, or hopeless. It was supposed to make him happy.

"I know, Harry," the man told him forcefully. "I know you want me to stay. But I _can't_." Then, softer, "I'd rather die."

And Harry felt like someone had stabbed him. The air in his chest left him, even as he knew that Jack hadn't meant it that way. And he could never ask Jack to give up the sea for him, not when he knew it would be caging him. Not when he knew _exactly_ what that felt like.

Even so, it hurt more than he cared to admit, and Harry didn't think he could speak for fear of his voice cracking, so he forced himself to let out a noncommittal hum and turned away.

Lying on his side, he took a moment to calm his emotions and his facial expression, deliberately relaxing all his muscles to make himself seem uncaring.

"Goodnight, Jack," he whispered. He didn't particularly want to talk about this, not anymore. Jack could never leave the sea, and Harry could never be a part of that - looting and fighting and hurting. Perhaps that was weak of him, but he had had enough of bloodshed to last him several lifetimes, and he could never leave his healing behind. There were so many people who relied on him - he could never live with himself if he made that choice.

Jack had tried, multiple times. But Harry also knew that Jack didn't really love him. Oh, he cared for him, but Jack's first and foremost love was and had always been the sea, and nobody, certainly not someone like Harry, could ever come close to that.

So, though Jack cared for him, Harry also knew he was nowhere near the man's priority, and though he loved Jack more than anything, he realised that going with him was a one-way trip to being abandoned.

Because that was just the way Jack was.

The man was running a finger down his back now, slowly trailing down his spine. "Still so thin," he whispered. Harry shivered at the touch, surprisingly delicate for someone so rough and passionate. "Still so sensitive." Jack continued, and Harry could hear the grin in his voice now. He still didn't turn.

"Harry." And now there were kisses on his neck, and an arm around his waist, and Harry knew what was coming next.

When Jack made love to him then, just as they lay in exactly that position, it was gentle and apologetic, and they both knew Harry wouldn't see him again for maybe even years. They knew he was sorry, that they were both sorry, but neither of them would ever budge from what they had worked so hard for. They were both too stubborn.

Jack was in no rush to finish, pulling one of Harry's legs up to have more space and keeping up a steady supply of kisses all over his lover's neck and ear and cheek. He moved like that, teasing until Harry was grasping at the sheets and moaning, until Harry was moving back into him and they were so warm, so hot, despite the cool temperature of the night.

In a few hours, Jack would pick up his clothes and leave as quietly as possible, and Harry would once again wake to a cold, empty bed, but for now they tried to forget as they reveled, just for now, in the intensity and pleasure of their emotions.


	5. Cheat

**Cheat**

Words: 948

Pairing: Terry Boot/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: Talk of cheating. I mean, the title says all really.

* * *

(He sits in the dark room, alone and unkempt. There is a cassette on the coffee table that he stares at for an uncomfortably long time before he slides it into the tape recorder, and presses play.)

"So... what exactly is the part that hurts? I mean, obviously the whole situation is..."

"Yeah."

"So... is it the fact he lied?"

"That would make sense, wouldn't it. Maybe that's what it is for other people, that they can come home and pretend they still love you, like they aren't betraying you, and that it makes you wonder whether they ever loved you at all. Whether it was even real, or if you imagined it all. Stupidly."

("You didn't," he whispers.)

"But, that's not it for you?"

"No." Breathe, pause. "No, it was different with - with him. I knew, and he knew - Terry, he knew that _I_ knew, and if I had been any braver..."

"It... take your time."

"The thing is, I was terrified of losing him. I loved him so much, and now I think back on it and it was probably so fucking pathetic, that I wouldn't say anything even when it was obvious. And... and he knew. Obviously."

"Mr. Boot didn't say anything either?"

(He hadn't.)

"I think he expected _me_ to? But when I didn't, he stopped caring as much about hiding it, and then it was like he'd just given up and I-" chokes up, voice breaks.

(He winces. He is ashamed, but he has probably made Harry cry a million times, and never looked twice.)

"Take a drink dear." Pours water into a glass and slides it towards him across the table.

"Thanks." Sips. "Terry knew, I know. I was so afraid of saying anything, because even if he... _you know_ , with other people, well. It was still _me_ he was coming home to at the end of the day, right? And if he left, if I confronted him and made him leave, I wouldn't even have _that_ , and I just. I couldn't stand the idea of that. Of not having _anything_."

(He'd still loved him, even then.)

"And what made you change your mind?"

"I don't know. I don't _know_! I just, one day I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, and then I realise that it's not even him anymore."

(He'd already ruined 'them'.)

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, obviously it was him, but he just. We never did anything, or even saw each other for days. And I thought, if that's how he acts, if I feel so horrible in my _own home_ \- didn't feel like my home anymore, you know? I felt like I was - like I didn't belong. I can't tell you how -" Breaks off. Pauses. "And I realised that _I_ was the one bringing _myself_ down. Nobody was forcing him to stop caring about me, but nobody was forcing me to stay and put up with it either."

"So you left?"

"Well yeah. And I mean, it's just so cruel, you know? If you don't _want_ to be with me anymore then just tell me! It's not only mean or - I mean. It's so _disrespectful_!"

( _Disgusting_. And he _hates_ himself for it.)

"And have you seen him after?"

"Yeah, occasionally. He. He was pretty surprised, you know. I have no idea what he wanted anymore, but. But I was probably, you know, _convenient_. Someone who kept his house clean and made food for him and minded the bills. And someone who, occasionally, served as a bedmate. So he was awkward about it."

"Awkward how?"

(Awkward like trying to remember a time before. A reason to want you to stay.)

"Like, he clearly didn't care about _me_ , and though he pretended to it was so halfhearted that I think even he knew that it wasn't going to work. So he said, you know, 'don't go' and shit but."

"But he didn't care."

(He does.)

"He didn't."

"But it's better now?"

"Yeah. It was weird at first, but it had turned into such a _bad_ relationship by that point that, honestly, I felt none of the... difficulty? That I thought I would. It felt like a relief, actually."

"You don't miss anything? Think back with nostalgia?"

(He tenses. He wants, and he knows it's stupid but he _hopes_.)

"I miss the first while of our relationship. When we started out. He was so sweet then, so kind and caring and... but he wasn't the same man by the end of it. He wasn't really the man I fell in love with then and, you know, maybe there was a reason for that. But I was there for him, and if Terry had wanted to sort it out or talk or whatever I made sure he knew I was _there_. But he didn't. And I just couldn't stay there any longer."

(Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

"Hmm. It's good to see you doing better, at the very least."

(It is, but it hurts so much.)

"Yeah. I. I _feel_ better too. My friend, she. You know her, right? Hermione? Yeah she's trying to convince me there are 'more fish in the sea' or whatever but I just. I haven't thought about _me_ in so long, you know. I just want to do that, for now. Reaffirm who _I_ am and stuff. I don't want to end up here ever again."

(How ironic, that Harry moved on, and he was still stuck here.)

"That's definitely not a bad idea. I wish you luck."

(How ironic, when he was the one who'd left first.)

"Yeah. Thanks."

(And he is so sorry, but it's too late.)


	6. Cruel

**Cruel**

Words: 361

Pairing: Fenrir Greyback/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: Very obvious hints of heavy abuse. Also, mention of blood, but nothing explicit.

* * *

Fenrir Greyback was not a pleasant man. In fact, he was downright unpleasant. He had all the qualities of all the worst people in history - greed, violence, anger. He was selfish, and possessed a fierce desire for power for power's sake. He wanted to cause fear in others just by passing and little else. He did not want a _comfortable_ life. He wanted pain - or, more specifically, he wanted to inflict it on others.

And Harry Potter was beautiful, and kind, and if Fenrir had been a better man he might have softened for him, become a better person, seen the error of his ways and all that rot.

Except he wasn't.

Maybe he was in love, but then again maybe those were only the mental ramblings of a stupid romantic who could only stand to see affection where there was only possession, who had to fool themselves into making this beautiful. It didn't matter, because even if Harry was the only person he had ever cared for on this godforsaken planet, he was still also the person he desired the most.

And, unfortunately, to be desired by Fenrir meant to be _hurt_ by Fenrir.

And really, he was just cruel. He didn't feel a twinge of guilt in his heart whenever he saw the young man flinch, or pain when Harry felt pain. He didn't experience some foreign, novel need to comfort when he saw Harry cry. Sympathy was a distant concept, reserved for soft-hearted and sentimental fools, and whatever else Fenrir was, he was never a fool.

No, Fenrir merely hurt, and laughed at the pitiful whimpers, and licked the tears and blood in ecstasy. He would keep Harry, and nobody else would ever touch him. He would break him, until the boy was so completely _his_ that there was no memory of a time before Fenrir, no thoughts that didn't revolve entirely around the beast that both he both loved and feared - his salvation and simultaneous torment. Until there was nothing but Fenrir, Fenrir, and more Fenrir.

And maybe then he would allow Harry - sweet, gentle, _broken_ Harry - to see the sun again.


	7. Reconciliation

**Reconciliation**

Words: 1,353

Crossover: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and bullying, but really, really briefly.

* * *

He could see the surprise in Harry's eyes for just a second before it was concealed behind a neutral facade. The man looked remarkably much the same as he did years ago, when they were both still boys, except that Harry looked sterner, and slightly more bitter now.

"Hey," he said when they stood before one another, and then wanted to smack himself for being so awkward. _Hey_? Like they were friends or had even kept any sort of contact with each other for him to greet Harry so casually.

The man smiled ever-so-slightly. "Hello," he replied casually. "Here to visit Dianne?"

"Yeah, ummm, yes." Spencer hooked his thumbs into his pockets to occupy his hands, leaning back on his heels. "It's... good to see you."

Harry looked away awkwardly, nodding. "Yeah, I-" his eyes glanced up briefly, and Spencer was hit with an endless green that practically incapacitated him for a moment, but then Harry was looking at his feet again and his arms were wrapped around himself as if he was cold (or uncomfortable, a part of Spencer's brain analyses) and he was backing away a little, keeping a distance between them.

Spencer wanted to reach out and touch him, maybe even kiss him, but every tensed muscle in Harry's body told him it would be incredibly unwelcome, so he stayed where he was, clenching fingers into the cloth of his black slacks.

"She's through there," Harry told him, gesturing feebly through a doorway. "You'll probably have to sign in with the reception."

"Right," Spencer swallowed. He remembered a time when Harry was the only person in the _world_ who he was comfortable with touching and being touched by (except for maybe his mom), when Spencer could talk for hours about whatever crossed his mind and know Harry was paying attention to even the most random topics. He remembered a time when they were so effortlessly in love, before he went and ruined it, and he wanted it back so badly it ached in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, reaching out towards Harry's face. He didn't touch, merely let his hand fall halfway to the distance between them. Harry shook his head mutely, not looking at him except for brief, timid glances at his face that sent pangs through him. Harry being so unhappy around him felt so wrong, but then what did he expect? Who was the one who up and left without a backwards glance, who didn't bother replying to texts or calls or letters, who abandoned the boy he said he loved without ever even telling him he was leaving?

But now that he saw Harry again, it all came flooding back - the anxiety and fear and insecurity, the love and affection, and though he was still afraid, he knew there was no way he could go back to living a life without Harry. So, despite all of him protesting, he gently took a hold of the small hand wrapped around Harry's elbow, just fingers wrapped around each other, and took a step forward until they were standing close enough that Harry would have to look up to make eye-contact.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "I know you must be upset with me-"

"Why does it matter?" Harry interrupted, fingers tightening against Spencer's for a split-second before relaxing again. "You left, presumably by choice, and then pretended I didn't exist. Okay, we moved on. So why does it matter even now?"

"Because I-" Spencer flushed, feeling embarrassed, feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. "I care about you," he said, feeling so inadequate he wanted to hide in a hole somewhere.

Harry looked up at him, smiling bitterly. "You didn't act like it," he replied softly, tone gentle despite his words, and still Spencer flinched.

"I- I know, I'm sorry-"

"Stop, please. I know you're sorry, and I-" his breath hitched suddenly, and he seemed to draw into himself, wrapping his free arm tighter around himself. "I'm sorry too. I mean, I thought we were okay but clearly-"

"No!" Spencer exclaimed, then flushed again when large green eyes fixed onto him. "I, I was afraid. My mom, well you know," he took a deep breath, and Harry reached out to hold his other hand too. "And as much as I l-loved you, you were, you know, part of it," he attempted to explain clumsily. He'd never felt quite this lame before, not even when he was being kicked around to satisfy the power complexes of teenage boys, but then again Spencer hadn't really cared about what they'd thought of him. Not like he cared now, about Harry.

"I was a coward," he muttered, ducking his head a little. He stood more than a full head taller than Harry, and though he'd always been taller than the other man, the difference between their heights hadn't been this significant back then. He'd grown, it seemed, where Harry had not.

It highlighted more than ever that they were _different_ now, that they couldn't possibly go back to what they used to be, and though it made him nostalgic it also made Spencer feel a strange determination.

He wanted this a lot, and some part of him felt like it _needed_ this. So, Spencer rationalized, there was only one thing for it.

"Forgive me," he said, then, feeling brave, pressed a quick kiss to the top of Harry's head.

The shorter man's cheeks immediately flushed red, spreading down his neck and Reid knew it would probably cover his chest and shoulders too.

Harry seemed embarrassed, but he looked Spencer in the eyes anyway. "You still haven't told me what you want," he mumbled, smiling hesitantly, and Spencer couldn't help but smile back.

"I want you," he said frankly. He was shocked at himself - he had never been this bold or outspoken. But this was _Harry_ \- Harry, who'd grown up with him. Harry, who'd come to him when the bruises and wounds became too painful and too much, or who stood up for him whenever he caught Spencer being picked on, despite his tiny size. Harry, who stood by his side and listened to him cry and rage when his dad left them, who helped and soothed when his mom's condition became worse. Harry, who had literally helped him _survive_ at times, so if Spencer couldn't be like this with Harry, then who?

The younger man was completely red by now, his fingers spasming where Spencer still held them. "What's that even supposed to mean," he said breathlessly. "We haven't seen each other in _years_ , Spencer, how are we just supposed to-" he let go of one hand and waved it around vaguely to signify what he meant.

"I- I don't know, but I want to, I-" where had his confidence gone again? Why was it that, all of a sudden, he couldn't form a sentence without stuttering nervously when two minutes ago he'd been actually _coherent_? He really wanted to smack himself, but he supposed that'd be even weirder so he held it off.

Harry was staring at him with an odd little smile, eyes crinkling gently at the edges, and Spencer didn't know why but it was _that_ smile that turned his knees weak under him. "Okay," he whispered, then repeated himself louder, "okay."

And then Spencer was reeling as Harry leant up on his tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, still smiling that strange smile. "Lunch?" He asked, and Spencer nodded dazedly.

"Lunch," he repeated, still half lost in the sensation of Harry's shy lips on his skin. His eyes grew wide at the quiet, musical sound of Harry's laugh as the man let go of him and stepped back, entwining his hands behind his back.

"I'll wait outside," he said, and then Harry was gone, and Spencer stood frozen for a long moment before he turned to the arched doorway leading to the ward his mother was housed in.

He was having lunch with Harry.

The world seemed a lot brighter all of a sudden.


	8. Tender

**Tender**

Words: 1,306

Crossover: The Chronicles of Narnia

Pairing: Peter Pevensie/Harry Potter

Beta: None

Warnings: None, except that this is kinda sappy?

* * *

"And then what happened?" Peter asked curiously. Harry stretched, leaning his weight back on his hands and crossing one leg over the other where they lay over the grass before him.

He shrugged. "Well, I was running and then suddenly I was on the roof. I had no idea how I got there, of course, but the management seemed to think I'd been climbing the school buildings."

"My goodness, the adventures you got up to," the young king chuckled, lying back and crossing his arms behind his head. "And this being back before you even _knew_ of magic. I mean, whatever did you _think_ had happened?"

"Well, I was actually convinced the wind had blown me up mid-jump or something. I tried to tell them and everything."

"Of course, because that is undoubtedly the most probable explanation," Peter laughed. His eyes were bright with happy laughter, and it made something tingly burn in the pit of Harry's stomach.

He lay down on his side, right next to the king. "Hey!" he exclaimed, his tone reprimanding, but his face was soft with affection. "Don't bully me!"

"No? But it is so much fun, dear," his lover replied teasingly. He hooked a finger in the neckline of Harry's tunic and pulled him down so that he was leaning over Peter, elbows on either side of his broad chest.

"I'll bet there are more fun things we can get up to," Harry raised his eyebrows suggestively, smirking when Peter's chest rumbled with laughter.

"Is that so? Like what?" he challenged, his finger now trailing ever so slightly across his collarbone.

His consort leaned closer until their lips were scarcely an inch apart, watching his eyes darken in lust. "Why do I get the feeling your thoughts are less than appropriate, my love?"

"And _how_ , exactly, am I supposed to keep my thoughts appropriate with you leaning into me like this, Harry?"

Harry snickered softly, stroking soft fingers over Peter's lips. He gasped when the other man opened his mouth to close them over the tips, kissing them in an oddly gentle and erotic way.

"So it's my fault, is it?" he couldn't look away from the sight of the warm mouth wrapped so provocatively around a part of him, and for a second he swore he felt the flicker of a tongue against his skin.

"Without a doubt." And then there was fruit being pushed into his mouth. He opened up without hesitation, chewing thoughtfully.

"Grapes, huh," he looked questioningly towards Peter. "Bring any chocolate, my King?"

"I _did_ pack some," he replied, one hand searching through the wicker picnic basket at their side. "How could I not, having invited _you_?"

"If you imply I'm addicted _one_ more time-"

"Hey, you said it, not me!" Peter laughed. Harry opened his mouth to reply, but then something else was being held against his lips, and really, that was more urgent than retorting.

Harry folded a hand across Peter's chest and leaned his chin on his forearm, munching happily. "They're nice."

"Of course they are," his lover replied indignantly, "only the _best_ for us."

"Oh, naturally, _My Lord_ ," Harry laughed fondly. He reached out to grasp a strawberry himself without ever looking away from Tue man he'd married, stroking the fruit teasingly along Peter's bottom lip to get him to open up before pushing it inside, pecking him gently when Peter closed his mouth over it.

And his eyes were so soft, bright baby blue and wanting, and when he stroked a hand gently through Harry's unruly hair the smaller boy was immediately reduced to goo, purring happily in encouragement.

"You're like a cat, honestly," his king laughed, and Harry might have taken offense except for the soft scratching of fingernails precisely _there_ that very literally took away any abilities for speech, so he just pushed his head imperiously into his lover's palm and enjoyed the petting.

"And a _demanding_ cat, too," Peter added, only smirking when Harry glared at him mutinously.

"These references need to stop, Peter," Harry sniffed, doing a very good job of raising his nose into the air even lying down as he was. "Besides, my animagus form is a _panther_ , not a cat."

"Panthers are a type of cat, dear," Peter insisted, smiling fondly. Harry shook his head at him.

"Nu-uh!" he replied. Peter pecked him on the nose, looking like he was trying to hold in laughter. "They're more dangerous than mere _house cats_ ," Harry proclaimed, prodding a finger into his chest. "And ferocious, too. You can't pet a panther, they'll bite your hand clean off!"

"Naturally," Peter replied mockingly, stroking fingers through Harry's hair. "How could I possibly even _dream_ it to be otherwise, my ferocious beast?"

Harry's eyes narrowed at him, and Peter's smile widened in response. "You wouldn't bite _my_ hand clean off, would you?" he asked, widening his pretty blue eyes innocently.

Harry snorted. "Prat," he replied, smacking him on the chest playfully. Then he flopped down so his cheek was smushed against the soft material of Peter's tunic. "Don't tempt me," he mumbled, smiling involuntarily when he felt the rumble of his lover's laughter against his face.

"You love me far too much," Peter said, moving one hand down to rest on the small of Harry's back. Then, he suddenly moved it down and squeezed Harry's butt, making him squeal embarrassingly.

"Peter!" he exclaimed, blushing bright red, but the king just leered at him.

"But Harry, don't you just _love_ what these hands do to you?" he asked, laughing.

"Unbelievable!" Harry huffed, but lay back down obligingly when Peter pressed demandingly on his back.

"Besides," he muttered after a while of silence. "I think it's _you_ who'd miss your hands more, so really, don't tempt me."

Peter kissed the top of his head lovingly. "You're adorable, you know that?"

"Oh? And here I was under the impression that I was ' _a vision_ '? Or is that only when you've had cake?"

Peter groaned. "You wax poetry __one__ time..." He complained, making Harry snort.

"You got _drunk_ off _cake_!" He laughed teasingly. "Didn't think it possible."

"It wasn't the _cake_ , I just _know_ that someone spiked my drink-"

"Uhuh," Harry pursed his lips. "You're pouting," he mumbled. "And don't worry, it was very cute poetry. Swept me off my feet and everything."

"I do not _pout_ ," Peter murmured pathetically against his hair, clearly pouting.

"Right." Harry looked up, resting his chin in the middle of his lord's chest. He knew the look he was directing at his king was unbearably sappy, but it didn't matter because, at this moment, Peter's gaze on him was even more so.

"I love you," he whispered, reaching up to brush blond hair away from the older man's forehead, and Peter smiled at him tenderly.

"Not nearly as much as I love you, precious."

Harry could feel his heart race at the endearment, and all of a sudden he felt incredibly shy. He pushed his face into Peter's neck, hiding the flush that rose steadily into his cheeks. "Yeah," he whispered, and Peter smelled like warmth and summer and _home_ , home in way that even Hogwarts hadn't managed to be with all of its laughter and adventure and Harry felt so happy he felt he could burst with it. ' _Not as much as I love you_ ', Peter said, but in that moment Harry knew that there was no way his husband - the man who'd grown up with family and friends and love, even in war - could ever understand how much he meant to Harry, and how grateful he was to be a part of Peter's life.

But Harry said none of this - just smiled against the skin of his lover's shoulder, and rested safe in the knowledge that he was beloved. That he belonged.


	9. Manic

**Manic**

Words: 2,725

Crossover: Avengers

Pairing: Loki/Harry Potter

Beta: None

Warnings: None

* * *

"Harry?" There was a surprised note in the man's voice as he came across his lover. He attempted to cover it, but it was already too late for that - Harry understood just fine. Despite everything, his lover hadn't foreseen his interruption.

' _Does he think that little of me?_ ' he thought, but he didn't turn or reply. His back tensed slightly against his will as he felt the taller man near him and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. When he still didn't respond, the grip tightened and he was turned to face the one man he hated and loved more than anything.

"Harry," the voice was soothing now, gentle as if to coerce a small, frightened animal out of its hiding spot. He cringed internally at the comparison. Was that what he'd become now? Had he, the one who rid the wizarding world of the dark Lord that terrorised it, become so complacent? He hated himself for it, and promised to himself he wouldn't let it happen again.

"Loki," his voice was calm in response, almost blasé, and Loki frowned before he could stop himself.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, annoyance audible in his voice.

Harry smiled, deliberately putting on an uncaring front. "Tony is my friend, Loki, I'm just visiting. The real question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

The grip on his shoulder tightened until he feared it might bruise, but he didn't lose the calm smile on his face. Loki's eyes grew darker in anger as his other hand came up to his face and his fingers tightened around his chin. "Will you betray me too, love?" he asked, voice silky and low.

Harry laughed bitterly, glaring a little. "Betray _you_?" He asked sarcastically. "And what do you call this, Loki dearest?" He waved a negligent hand over the view of the city, and already there was smoke rising from collapsing buildings. Already, there were people running around in fear and pain.

"This is for us, Harry," Loki started, but Harry shook his head gently. Loki's fingers gripped his chin until he couldn't move it again, but Harry didn't care.

"It's for you, Loki. All the people I sacrificed my childhood for, spent my _life_ saving. What did I do it for?"

"They did not deserve you!" Loki snarled, incensed. "They hurt you, took and took and what did you get in return except pain and abandonment? They are all worthless," his voice softened suddenly, a smile creeping onto his face. "You told me yourself, Harry, how they turned on you at the drop of a hat. You wondered what you did wrong, but the truth is that humans are just like that. It is in their nature."

"How are you any different from Voldemort, Loki?" Harry asked softly, sadly. Their lips were ever closer now, and Harry could hear the desperation in his voice but what was the point in hiding it, anymore? He loved this man, even as he hated everything Loki stood for. Even as he hated the man for what he was doing.

"How could you compare me to _him_ , Harry?" his lover seemed amazed at the comparison, incredulous. "I would never hurt you."

"You'd hurt them." He said, neglecting to say how Loki was hurting him even now, grip firm enough to maybe leave bruises, and lies piling up high enough to make him wonder if he'd ever even known the real Loki, if he'd always just loved a mask.

"They are mortals, Harry. Vermin."

"So am I." He whispered. ' _So was I_.'

Loki stared at him, their mouths touching every time either of them spoke now, soft breath against each other's lips and Harry just wanted to kiss him, so badly.

He didn't. "You're different," and Loki's eyes were pleading with him.

Harry laughed sharply. He tried to move his face away, dislodge the hand holding his face still, but Loki was holding onto his waist now, another hand on his nape, and he was pressed so close that Harry could feel every part of him against every inch of his body. He hated it, but for a minute he wished they'd be frozen here, in this time, because he didn't know if they could ever be like this again.

He didn't know if Loki could still love him after this.

"Do you hear yourself?" he asked. He tried to calm his breathing, to calm his head. It wouldn't do to jump onto his lover violently, or to burst out crying. Or both. "You're a hypocrite, Loki."

The man holding him froze, so still and cold he might literally have turned to ice. "Even you...?"

Harry wanted to scream at the look of hurt in Loki's eyes. This wasn't what he wanted, and the urge to wrap his arms around the man and whisper endearments in his ear was almost overwhelming. Still, he held himself still.

"Stop it, please," he said instead, watching as the betrayal grew. "I can't-" he broke off as Loki moved suddenly, and then there were lips on his own, teeth scraping at his mouth and tongue dancing with his own, until he could barely breathe. His mouth hurt, but he couldn't stop, couldn't let go because what if he never saw Loki again? What if this man didn't stop for him, and decided this _invasion_ was more important than Harry? How would he live with himself, and live for such a long, _long__ time. Not that Loki knew.

Oh God, Loki didn't _know_.

The kiss - though it was more of a brutal assault - donations came to an end and for a moment Harry didn't know why, but then Loki's chest was rumbling under his hands as he spoke, face turned away from him, and he realised there was someone else there.

"Tony?" he gasped as he set eyes on the red-yellow armour, and the man smirked back.

"Comfortable there, Sparkles?"

His face went red, and all of a sudden the tiled flooring seemed incredibly interesting, but he didn't move out of Loki's arms. He couldn't find it in himself to step away yet, and Loki's arms tightened to prevent it just in case.

"You sure know how to pick 'em." The man continued, undeterred by Harry's lack of a response. It was said in a teasing tone, but Harry could detect the undercurrent of sympathy underneath it, and he suddenly felt so very tired. His grip tightened where his hands lay on Loki's chest, fingers curling into the little amount of green fabric there was amongst metal and leather.

"What can I say?" he muttered, smiling sadly. "I suppose I do." Tony didn't say anything else, merely turned to Loki, who stood glaring at him.

"So, what's it gonna be, Reindeer Games?"

The man positively snarled at him in response. "There are no choices here, Man of Iron. You will stand down, or I will make you."

"See, I really can't do that." Tony snapped down the faceplate of his suit, readying himself. Loki turned from Harry, reaching for his sceptre, and Harry gripped onto him to pull him back.

"Please, please Loki. Don't do this." He sounded pathetic, he knew, but he just wanted-

"Don't you _beg_ , Gandalf," Tony growled from behind his suit, voice coming through speakers and not sounding any less fierce for it. "He doesn't deserve that, and you deserve so much more."

Harry closed his eyes in defeat as Loki took offense to that and ripped away from him, stalking over to Tony. He looked beautiful even now, elegance and power in every line of his body. Harry hurt at the thought of fighting him, but even now he knew he would.

Once again, he had to do what was _right_.

Loki approached Tony confidently, his handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer, and made to swing his sceptre only to be blasted away by Tony, who didn't wait for him to recover before laying into him. Harry shook himself out of his stupor, looking away from his lover and the hate in his every motion. He wrapped his arms around him, and apparated.

The next few hours were spent evacuating people and stabilising buildings so they wouldn't collapse and take innocent lives. He tried not to keep up with matters over by the tower, but he couldn't deny that - despite knowing it was wrong - a part of him yearned to help the man he loved. He was stronger than that though, and if he hadn't bowed to the Dursleys and Voldemort then he wouldn't bow to Loki either, no matter how much he loved him.

And then he could feel Loki hurting as he was beat through the link they shared, and when he made it back to the tower to see the man unconscious and subdued, he realised that Tony - his best friend Tony - was flying a nuke up through the wormhole. He felt frozen as he watched, Loki's head in his lap, as the seconds passed and Tony did not return, fingers clenching in fear.

He gasped when Tony reappeared just as the portal closed, only to shout out wordlessly when he realised he wasn't flying, but falling.

Scrambling up as quickly as he could, Harry apparated to a closer building and pointed his wand at the falling figure in red and yellow, mind flashing back to when he'd been in a somewhat similar position - except, of course, that he'd been the person doing the falling that time, and that it happened during a game of quidditch.

" _Arresto Momentum_!' he shouted desperately, hoping against hopes that he was close enough, powerful enough, quick enough. The figures watching from down below didn't seem to know which way to look, but eventually Tony had safely landed and Harry watched long enough to know he was awake before going back to Loki.

He was awake again when Harry came back, glaring balefully at the ceiling as if it was the cause of all the faults in the world. His eyes slid over to Harry as the younger man walked in, eyes softening slightly but not losing the anger. He couldn't move - Harry had made sure of that, but now that he was here the wizard cast _Incarcerous_ and then un-petrified him, helping him sit up with gentle hands.

He didn't look up as he did this, but he didn't have to - Loki's displeasure was practically coming off him in waves.

They were silent for a long while, sitting there, before Loki finally gave in. "What are you doing here?" he muttered, clearly upset.

Harry chanced a glance up at his face, fiddling uselessly with his fingers. He shook his head, questioning. "Where else would I be?" He asked softly.

Loki snorted. "With your pet heroes, my dear, celebrating the defeat of your enemy."

A wave of anger went through him at his lover's words. He scowled angrily, glaring into Loki's eyes. "How dare you," he whispered, incensed. "Don't you turn this on me! I warned you, I _told_ you-"

"You betrayed me!" Loki shouted, skin gaining a faint bluish tinge as he lost control of himself. "You were supposed to take _my_ side-"

"Are you serious?" Harry exclaimed incredulously. "You were in the _wrong_ , Loki. You would have murdered thousands, and I was supposed to stand by and _let_ you?"

The man snorted, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have expected more from you," he muttered. "You're just a human after all, even if you have magic. You're just like the rest of them."

Harry straightened his back, clenching his fists hard enough that his nails were this side of drawing blood from his palms. "I'm not just human, Loki," he said, voice deceptively calm. "I was, once, but I haven't been for a long time." Saying so, he let his tight hold on his magic slip, let Loki sense the change in his core and taste his magic anew. The other's eyes widened as he sensed what Harry was, and he seemed to draw into himself as he stared at the younger in shock.

"You..." He mumbled, eyes wide as if he'd never seen Harry before. The wizard wrapped his arms around himself defensively in response. Loki leaned forward slightly, closing his eyes as if losing himself. "It's so potent," he whispered. "Delicious."

Harry's cheeks reddened almost instantaneously, and his eyes widened. He had expected many reactions, but this wasn't one. "I- I didn't know how to tell you," he said, voice shaky. He wasn't sure what to do with himself anymore, and the anger from earlier seemed to just disappear. "I wanted to, but then-"

"Hush," Loki interrupted, moving closer even with his hands tied behind his back. "I could never have _dreamed_ -" he kissed Harry, briefly, on the lips, leaving him feeling as if he were frozen. "You're mine," he hissed, nudging Harry's nose with his own affectionately.

"Of course I am," Harry whispered. "But it doesn't change what you did, Loki. It doesn't make it okay."

"I'm sorry," his lover told him, looking at him fondly. "My Master of Death," he chuckled, "who could have guessed?"

Harry frowned, feeling a little apprehensive. He looked at Loki carefully. "It doesn't make it okay, Loki," he said again. "You know what that means?"

"Of course," his lover replied smoothly, but he didn't seem upset - just strangely relieved.

"Okay..." Harry murmured. "So, ummm, Thor will probably be here in a while, to take you up to Asgard - why aren't you upset?" he exclaimed incredulously. The man just looked at him, all soft eyes and gentle smiles, and Harry flushed, confused.

"You might be put away for _decades_ ," he breathed, staring at Loki wide-eyed. " _Why are you not upset_?"

"I thought you would die," Loki replied finally. He leant forwards, pushing his nose into the crook where Harry's neck joined his shoulder, and breathed in deeply. Harry found he couldn't move, not closer and not away, as cold realisation flooded him.

"You thought I would... die." They stayed like that for a second as Harry processed the thought, and Loki knew exactly when he had, because Harry threw himself forward into his lap with a wordless cry, holding him tightly to himself as if he'd never let go.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, and Loki's arms twitched as if he wished he could wrap his arms around Harry in turn, but he was unable.

He settled for leaning his cheek against the top of Harry's head, breathing in the warm scent of home the man exuded. "It is okay," he whispered soothingly, and who would have dreamed that _Loki_ would ever be the one comforting, the one reassuring anybody else?

He pressed his lips to wild black curls fleetingly, smiling at the way arms tightened around his waist. "It is okay," he repeated. "It will be fine."

And it would be. Loki had killed hundreds, tried to take away the world's freedom and rule it, and though a large part of him had wanted it, he knew that it was the anger at abandonment by Odin and Thor - his supposed family, and fear of his apparently mortal lover's impending death that had pushed him to agree to the bargain with the titan, where before he would never bow and take orders from anyone.

But it didn't matter now - he was done. He would come clean about _everything_ to Harry, from Thor's banishment to his bid to take over the world. In a while, he'd be taken to Asgard to stand trial, and he'd likely be put away for decades, but knowing he'd still see Harry alive and well when he came out of the other side made it seem a much smaller punishment.

There was still anger inside him, hate for Odin who'd lied to him and Thor who'd upstaged him at every turn, hate for all of the Asgardians who'd ever looked down their nose and sneered at him and his magic and called him weak, and maybe this was all a way to prove them wrong too. But in the end, he loved Harry so much more than any of that. He didn't think he could ever forget, but he was sure he could move past it. With time.


	10. Incidentally

**Incidentally**

Words: 1,065

Crossover: Twilight

Pairing: Edward Cullen/Harry Potter

Beta: Nobody *cries*

Warnings: None

* * *

Running to Alaska was perhaps not the bravest plan, but Edward knew that staying in Forks would only have ended in tears and probably (most unfortunately), blood. And so he hadn't even waited to get home and tell Esme himself, even when he knew it'd upset her - he'd just run straight from the school to where he knew the Denali coven lived.

He knew they'd welcome him - they were old friends, and the only other vampires he knew of that followed the same 'unnatural' diet that he and his own family did. He'd only expected to stay with them for a few days, perhaps a week at most.

He did not expect to meet a human.

To be fair, human wasn't quite right. This person _seemed_ human - he breathed air, ate for sustenance, moved ever-so-slowly when compared to them and when Edward brushed stone cold fingers against his soft cheeks, they flushed an attractive red with his blood almost immediately. But unlike the Swan girl (unlike all humans Edward had met in his long life) he didn't smell like _food_.

He was different, not only in the electric scent of his blood (literally, he smelled like lightning) but also the casual way he behaved around them. He had never met another like this boy before, and it was Garrett, voice deep and full of amusement, that explained to him the existence of magic and wizarding kind.

His name was Harry, and despite being a vampire among vampires Edward would swear he'd never seen anyone as beautiful as him. Not superficially, because vampire beauty was something of a legend in itself, but Harry was beautiful in the way he practically _exuded_ life and vitality, in the way that he smiled like the sun despite the dramatic tragedy that was his life, in the way he constantly moved and loved, as if there was so much emotion inside him it couldn't possibly all be contained.

And Edward was no stranger to attraction, not after the long life he'd lived. He'd found it in Venice, in the dark-haired woman with lips painted bright red and blood an ambrosia that complemented her perfume perfectly; he found it in the tall, smiling man with messy, dirty-blond hair that fell into happy brown-green eyes. He'd never done anything about it, but of course he'd met and seen people he'd wanted and made eyes at.

And every time, there was that moment of vertigo where he imagined it, fantasized about walking up to them and loving them saying things he'd never dared speak aloud before. But then he'd remember how _human_ they were, how fragile, and felt his heart ache in a way that turned it all off and made him feel funny in his stomach.

And then there was Harry, and though Edward knew logically he was just as dangerous to the wizard - soft as he was, _delicate_ as he was - he was so utterly enchanted by him and his smiles and his kindness that there was no way he could walk away.

Edward was helpless to fall in love.

Before he knew it, he was touching Harry whenever they passed each other, brushing softly against his bare nape and slim wrists almost as if by accident. And yet they both knew it wasn't.

Edward had never been part of something like this, a slow seduction that took away all rationality by the time the crux came, but then again he'd never really been part of any sort of seduction. And looking at this boy, watching him smiling and joking with people like _him_ , he couldn't help but think he couldn't possibly be the soulless demon he'd thought himself to be. Not if someone like _Harry_ wanted him.

A week passed before he even registered it, then two, and Edward realised he should probably go home. It had been a while, and school was waiting for him. So were Carlisle and Esme, and goodness knew they worried for him even when it was completely unnecessary. But he looked down, and Harry looked so adorable and innocent and _open_ , slumped against the vampire's strong frame in his sleep, and Edward felt like he'd waited all this time for exactly _this_ , for understanding and fulfilment and affection that would have made him flush with all the emotion had he only been human, and how could he possibly leave this behind?

He took a trip that night, back home. After so many years spent together, he felt like he owed them this. They were his family.

When he came back Harry was awake already, casually munching on a breakfast muffin and talking to a freshly-fed Kate. He looked up when Edward came in, sending him a positively disarming smile and beckoning him closer.

"Where did you run off to?" he asked. Edward smiled, suddenly leaning forward and lacing cold fingers between Harry's. They were white against Harry's gold tan, and much stronger, but had Harry tried to pull away, he'd have let go immediately.

He didn't.

"Come away with me," he said instead of answering the wizard's question. Harry frowned, perplexed.

"Come where?"

"Anywhere." Edward leaned in closer, distantly registering that Kate had left the room. "I want to see the world with you."

Harry stared, dumbfounded, then snickered. "Two bachelors traveling the globe?" he joked. Edward smirked and pushed a hand behind Harry to hold onto his nape. Before he could say anything, Edward moved in and kissed him.

Harry's lips were warm and pink and _alive_ , almost pulsing with the gentle coursing of blood under the fragile, tender skin. They were the single most addictive thing Edward had ever tasted.

"I'm hoping not," he told Harry when they finally separated. He felt a tingle of pride go through him at the look of lust on the man's face. Harry glared at him, softly panting and clearly annoyed that Edward still looked so put together. His eyes gleamed in determination, and Edward shivered a little in slight trepidation.

"You call that a kiss?" he panted, and then Harry pounced on him, snogging him for all he was worth until Edward actually felt _dizzy_ , though he was still smug to note that Harry still looked more dazed than him.

"Is that a yes?" he asked hopefully, and Harry shot him a smile that was positively feral.

"That's a 'definitely'."


	11. Crush

**Crush**

Words: 1,422

Crossover: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Pairing: Zuko/Harry Potter

Beta: Nobody. Ever.

Warnings: None, except Zuko being the most awkward cinnamon bun to exist. Have I mentioned how much I love him?

* * *

Scowling, he looks down at the thick volume before him. English, the language written down is English, but all he can think is how it _isn't_ his own.

This new world they've found themselves in is strange and exotic and completely and utterly different from their own. The people here don't bend, unless magic counted as an element. And even then, they use sticks (wands, his mind berated him) to do it. As if they aren't one with it. Doesn't using an aid make them weaker? Back home, there's no way he'd have been allowed to-

He shakes the thought of, turning back to the book and starts to doodle on his length of parchment. It's been a long time since he's thought of _home_ , since he's thought of his father and Azula and his mysteriously absent (not dead not dead _not dead_ ) mother. He's not sure if it's home anymore.

Toph, Katara and Sokka are loving it here, and even though when they arrived Aang had been filled with guilt about 'abandoning' their world again, it has slowly worn away into grudging acceptance, and now the Avatar is just as happy as his friends to explore this new world. But Zuko feels incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that his name means nothing here, or that he still doesn't really know the capabilities of these wizards and witches, and doesn't know if he's safe. If he could fight, and win.

And they tell him he's paranoid to think like that, but even with Aang being the Avatar and Katara and Sokka losing their mother, they have not seen the sides of the war that Zuko has. Perhaps it is a little unfair, to believe they have suffered any less than he has, but that is not exactly it. They've been hurt, just as Zuko has, but they've also managed to keep their innocence. Their naivety.

Zuko has not.

Despite all this though, there is something that makes Zuko feel brighter and more hopeful - or perhaps he should say some _one_. When he was younger he'd always imagined he'd love Mei forever, but as he grew and she stayed loyal to Azula, his resentment for her grew until there is no way he can claim to love her anymore. And yet, there is also no way he can do anything about his current crush, either.

The door to the library opens with a soft creak, and as Zuko looks up, he sees the very boy he's been thinking about walk in, cheeks red and fingers clutching tightly around the strap of his book-bag. His hair is a messy and curly black cloud sitting atop his head (as always), and Zuko kind of really wants to wrap his arms around the boy and shove his nose into his hair. He bets it smells great. And maybe that's kinda creepy...

The room feels a little warm as he looks away from his face and at his standard black school robes - robes that hide very well exactly how tiny the boy really is. Zuko might've been fooled, if not for that one time he'd accidentally walked in on the boy changing - an incident that still causes him to do a reasonable impression of a tomato. at the memory of it.

His eyes wander higher again, and catch a peek of a strange red scar half hidden under a fringe. And _that_ is the reason he has _no_ chance (not that he would've, anyway). The boy he has a crush on is none other than Harry Potter, saviour and darling of the wizarding world. There is no way Zuko would be an acceptable partner in _anyone's_ eyes. Not here.

Harry is talking to the librarian now, Madam Pinch or Prince or something. She looks on at him with her lip curled in disapproval, but then again she looks at everything but her books that way. Harry seems nervous, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing awkwardly. Zuko stares shamelessly at the soft profile of his face as the woman ( _Pince_!) finally points him in his general direction, and when the boy looks over Zuko looks away hurriedly, hoping against hopes that he hasn't been caught looking (like a _creep_!).

He doesn't seem to notice. Instead, Harry makes a beeline straight for his part of the library and walks right on past until he reaches the section of the bookshelf he wants, and starts browsing. He doesn't spare Zuko a glance, completely focused on his self-appointed quest, and Zuko doesn't know whether to be grateful or upset.

He decides on a confusing mixture.

He looks up again after another two minutes, unable to keep his gaze away. He might not even be on Harry Potter's radar, but he's also kinda really awkwardly infatuated (Zuko style), so he's sort of helpless to stare. Creepily.

He's so hopeless.

As he watches, Harry stretches out to reach the book he's been eyeing, and his sleeve rides back a little to display his bare wrist.

Zuko freezes, staring. Never before has he found wrists particularly enchanting, but he can't help but stare at the small patch of smooth skin, the curve of the palm bending into a firm forearm, the small rounded bone of his wrist.

It is surprisingly erotic.

He looks away, flushed.

Time passes in an odd kaleidoscope. He tries to focus on the words on the page before him, but even as he keeps from looking back at Harry, he finds he can't concentrate. His mind is filled with sickeningly sweet fantasies of him and Harry, of touching each other and smiling at each other and _kissing_ -

He shakes his head, trying to cool the sudden warmth of his skin, and deems his endeavour a failure. Of course, as is law, he fails to look around as he pulls his chair out and stands up suddenly, and he knocks into someone walking behind him hard.

" _Oof_!" comes the exclamation, and Zuko turns quickly, almost falling himself in the process. As it is, he _does_ stumble over his chair, but luckily lands on his feet right in front of-

Oh Lord.

He drops to his knees, rambling. "I'm _so_ sorry!" he shouts, and misses the angry cough from somewhere over the talk shelves. He's too busy helping the boy he's been crushing on since he _got here_ pick up the books he dropped. Which is _Zuko's_ fault. Completely.

He wants the ground to swallow him up.

They stand simultaneously, and Zuko knows he's blushing bright red as he shoves the books into Harry's arms.

"I'm so, _so_ sorry," he says again, and then makes the mistake of making eye contact. And then he freezes.

Harry's eyes are green, but that's not really right. What they really are, is a _mixture_ of greens, jade and emerald and bright, almost-yellow shards that make some kind of unreal, _magical_ mixture, and it is then that he realises he's staring, and that Harry's face has gone a bright red as he stares, silently, back.

"Oh. Uh," he tries, and feels like kicking himself because really? He never stutters, and he's _never_ lost for words - not in front of _anybody_. He's a prince, after all! But Harry - unassuming, scruffy Harry - is so much _more_ , and he finds it a little difficult to breathe.

"Sorry," he manages eventually, his own cheeks pinking.

"Oh, it's fine," the boy replies. He bites his lip, clearly awkward, and now he's staring at Harry's lips. They're really pink, almost like a girl's really, not that he makes it a habit to notice this sort of stuff. But, he supposes, they look pretty soft, and he wonders if they'd feel as soft as they look, and then he's broken out of his reverie by a soft gasp.

He looks back up and Harry's staring at him, eyes wide and cheeks almost glowing with embarrassment and, maybe, arousal. Or so he hopes.

"I should - my friends are, ummm... waiting." He trips over his words, lowering his eyes shyly, and he has just enough time to realise it's absolutely _adorable_ before he registers the words, and by then Harry has already turned tail and hurried away, as fast as he can without running.

He takes a deep breath, staring after a retreating back, and feeling absolutely lost. "Fuck!" he shouts, and fuck indeed, because he thinks he's in love.

Madam Pince, unaware of this revelation, kicks him out.


	12. Swagger

**Swagger**

Words: 2,593

Pairing: Cormac McLaggen/Harry Potter

Beta: Nobody.

Warnings: None.

* * *

Harry was hiding.

He huddled down behind the boxes in the broom cupboard, straining his ears for any tell-tale sounds that would reveal anybody's approach.

Or specifically, _his_ approach.

He didn't know when it had started, only because it had begun incredibly gradually, and he'd always taken the interest McLaggen had in him to only be because of his very obvious romantic interest in Hermione.

But then it had turned into very badly disguised sexual innuendos and groping and _winking_ , and even Harry - oblivious as he was - had to admit that something was up.

He'd endured weeks of this in and amongst all of Dumbledore's extra lessons and proving Malfoy's guilt and dodging Slughorn's relentless club invitations, and tried his best to ignore the blatant flirting even when it got so bad that people turned to look at them in the hallways (though who wouldn't when the guy had him pressed up against a wall in the middle of the day, barely two minutes' walk from the Great Hall?).

And then, a few hours ago, he'd cracked.

It had happened during one of the Slug Club's meetups. He'd arrived late, and somehow Professor Slughorn had set out one too few chairs. Which meant Harry didn't have a place to sit.

As he entered the room, the Professor paled a little in awkward embarrassment and started blustering about getting another chair, when Harry saw Cormac McLaggen pull out his own chair a little and pat his lap teasingly.

"There's a perfectly good chair here, Professor," he said loudly, a huge smirk on his face that said - very clearly - that he knew he was attractive.

And as Harry stood, flushing a brighter and brighter red as every second passed, he cursed the world that he did indeed find McLaggen _incredibly_ attractive.

He didn't look at the other Gryffindor or at Hermione's pitying look, instead staring resolutely at Slughorn. The man stared back at him, apparently lost for words. The seconds trickled past, and then a minute passed before Harry saw that McLaggen had shifted to face him better, arm across the back of his chair.

"C'mon dear," he said, looking up at Harry. "There's no need to be shy. Nobody here minds, do you?" he didn't look around for an answer as he patted his thigh again slowly, the sound almost obscenely loud in the awkward silence.

"Sit down," he said again, and Slughorn laughed awkwardly.

"Oh, yes." He coughed. "Of _course_ you can sit with your... ummm-" he coughed again, looking away to hide the two pink splotches on his cheeks. "Your boyfriend."

The room felt incredibly warm to Harry, and suddenly he wished he'd never gotten out of bed this morning. He wanted to turn and leave, but his feet were frozen to the ground, refusing to obey him. He opened his mouth to correct the Professor and tell his that McLaggen was definitely _not_ his boyfriend, but then there were firm, strong fingers wrapping around his wrist and tugging him down, and before he knew it Harry was sprawled inelegantly across the boy's lap.

He tried to get up, ignoring the squeaky noise of surprise he made, but there were arms around his waist and a nose in his hair and Harry was found himself feeling very much mortified and very much stuck.

"Let go," he whispered, flushing hot and red. McLaggen ignored him, so he tugged on one of the bulky arms wrapped around him a little desperately.

"Let go," he whispered again as the conversation resumed around them. The other boy laughed softly into his hair.

"No."

He wanted to insist, loudly so that the other Gryffindor would _have_ to, but everyone was still sending them looks and Hermione looked so _sorry_ for him that he just couldn't bring himself to make a big deal, and instead looked down at his hands entwined in his own lap.

He'd just began to calm down a little when McLaggen's hand moved to his knee, leaving the other still tight around his waist. He tried to ignore it as the hand moved slowly up his leg and then his inner thigh, but tensed involuntarily when it cupped his groin, and then almost squeaked again when his fingers tightened and squeezed Harry's cock.

He reached to grab at the arm around him, clutching at the bare forearm and trying not to react at the stimulation, but of course he felt his cock rising then, becoming hard.

He moaned then, quiet enough that nobody but the boy under him could hear, and wiggled to get away from the hand.

McLaggen hissed at him to stop, tightening the arm around him, but Harry didn't listen until he realised that McLaggen too was hard.

And his erection lay right against Harry's arse.

He jumped a little, yelping, and Slughorn must've heard because he suddenly broke away from his conversation with another student, looking at Harry in shock before looking up at the clock.

"Oh look!" he laughed, awkward. "Is that the time already? Off to bed with you!"

Harry had been the first one out, racing away from the room as soon as he'd been let loose. He heard a shout of his name behind him, but hadn't even looked back to see if it _had_ actually been McLaggen (though who else would it be?), instead just running away as fast as he could (which, to be fair, was fairly fast). And yes, that wasn't very brave, but Harry was a _little_ too high strung to care, to be perfectly honest. He doubted anyone would call him out on it, in any case.

And now he was here, ensconced in a broom cupboard and trying to ascertain whether or not it was safer to go back to Gryffindor tower or whether he'd have a better chance at survival spending the night here. At the moment, he was leaning towards spending the night, if only because he wouldn't put it past McLaggen to be up and waiting for him to walk into the common room before pouncing.

Was he making lion comparisons in his head? Maybe. To be honest, if you asked him lions _were_ pretty proud creatures, which was really a nicer way of saying arrogant. Perhaps that was what McLaggen had chosen to represent?

He sighed and wriggled around a bit to get comfortable, trying to find a position that'd be bearable in the long run. Certainly he'd be here a while.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when he heard a sound. Harry sat up, breaking out of the light sleep he'd fallen into, and nearly gasped at the ache in his neck. Suddenly he was regretting the decision to stay the night in a broom cupboard (why had he thought it to be a good idea?). He missed his soft, clean bed _so much_ -

There it was again! He froze, quieting his breathing as much as he could. There was someone there. He didn't know what time it was, but surely it was _way_ past curfew. If he was lucky, it'd be Filch, who'd just wander past muttering to himself. If he was unlucky...

He shivered, crossing his fingers and _hoping against hopes_ -

The footsteps came closer, not bothering to keep quiet. He'd like to think it was _indeed_ Filch (what student would walk around this loudly at _this_ time?) but the confident, proud stride sounded nothing like the caretaker's creepy shuffle.

In fact, it sounded a lot like-

The door flung open, and Harry was assaulted with the bright shine of a lit wand. He gasped, bringing up an arm to shield his eyes, but couldn't see who held the wand aloft. Wary, he scrambled up so as to remove the advantage of height.

It only worked somewhat.

"Ummm..." he mumbled. There was a deep laugh from the figure, and Harry froze again.

Of course. It just _had_ to be him. Why did he ever do to deserve this? Who had he hurt? Why did Fate _hate_ him so much?

He took a step back, trying to compose himself. It was difficult when he couldn't see McLaggen's face.

"What?" he asked, tone annoyed. McLaggen laughed again, dimming the light enough that Harry could see his face.

"Were you hiding, kitten?"

Harry scowled intensely at that. "I'm not a damned kitten, McLaggen. Now what do you want?"

The boy raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You," he said.

Harry shivered in disgust (definitely disgust, and not want. Or pleasure. Or, like, lust. No way). He wrapped his arms around himself, then loosened them again. He seemed much too vulnerable that way.

Instead he raised his chin in his best impression of Malfoy and sneered, "not interested."

The blond stepped closer again, and Harry automatically backed away, only to find his back hitting the wall behind him.

Curse these small broom cupboards.

"Of course you are," McLaggen was saying, stepping closer until he was in Harry personal space, and then leaning down until their faces were mere centimetres apart.

"I-I'm not!" Harry exclaimed, and hated himself for stuttering. But Cormac (because it was awkward to call him by his surname now, even if it was in his own head) was so close, and Harry was getting strangely warm and flustered and he _hated_ it.

It made him look like he might actually _like_ Cormac.

He flinched at the thought, and then raised his hand to cover his mouth as his skin grew hotter. Harry had to admit that Cormac was pretty good looking, so of _course_ he had a reaction to his proximity. It was natural, right?

Unbidden, Hermione and her expression of utter disgust at the idea of having any romantic affiliations with Cormac rose into the forefront of his mind, and Harry's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh no!" he gasped, forgetting for a moment that Cormac was _right there_ and covering his eyes in embarrassment.

He groaned to himself, wondering how he could _possibly_ like such an absolute _arsehole_ , but then large hands were wrapping around his wrists and pulling them away from his face.

And he was, if possible, even closer, and Harry noticed that his eyes were actually a strangely dark blue (like royal blue, but a little lighter), and then he squeaked (again, damn it!) and tried to free himself.

Cormac was grinning, and moved closer so slowly Harry was both dreading and anticipating the point at which their mouths would touch. Which shouldn't have been happening for various reasons, but Harry was kind of getting fuzzy on the specifics if that.

Cormac's breath on his mouth was warm and wet, and it smelled like the chocolate truffles they'd had for desert at the Slug Club. Harry imagined he'd taste like it too, and his mouth opened in a silent gasp at the thought.

Cormac grabbed his face then, hands firm but gentle on his cheeks. The message was clear - since Harry hadn't moved away yet, Cormac wouldn't allow him to change his mind anymore. He'd lost his chance to back away.

Harry only had time to think he didn't mind as much as he should before their lips touched.

And it was nice. It was _really_ nice, actually, but Cormac only kissed him like that for a few seconds before he was pushing his tongue into Harry's mouth and _licking_ , and _dear Merlin_ but Harry felt his knees getting weak. He didn't know kissing could feel so _good_.

' _No wonder it's such a popular pastime,_ ' he thought to himself, and let his eyes slip closed. One of Cormac's hands had wandered to his lower back, and the other was on the back of his head, firmly keeping their mouths together. And Harry? He scrabbled pathetically at broad shoulders in an attempt to maintain balance. Honestly, Cormac was probably doing more in that department than him, but it was the thought that counted, right?

They kissed for an awfully long time, but Harry didn't really realise until they had to stop to catch their breath. Cormac didn't move too far away, just enough to give him room to breathe, and looked down at him with an oddly soft smile on his usually arrogant face. Harry didn't really notice, being too busy regaining control over himself.

He moved his hands to rest on Cormac's chest within the circle of the older boy's arms, and tried to cool the fire on his cheeks. His lips felt swollen, and when Harry touched his fingertips to them he found them puffy and faintly bruised.

"Still not interested?" Cormac said, his voice deep and husky, and Harry shivered faintly.

"I-" he tried, but his voice cracked embarrassingly. He coughed lightly, pushing against Cormac's chest gently. To his surprise, the boy's hold around him loosened and he stepped back, putting a little distance between them (but not much, Harry was pleased to notice).

Harry smiled faintly, and looked back up. "I just," he tried again, "I've heard a lot of... things."

Cormac nodded, for once serious, and crossed his arms over his chest. Harry could see his biceps tighten through the thin material of his shirt, and he immediately flushed a bright red, thanking Merlin for the relative darkness of the cupboard.

"Not good... things," Harry added. He coughed again. "I don't want to be a joke to you, McLaggen."

"Cormac," Cormac said immediately. "And you're not. I just, I really-" he broke off, and when Harry looked up questioningly, he was flushing slightly.

"I like you," he said quietly, but in the silence of the broom cupboard he may as well have shouted.

"Oh," Harry said, then again. "Oh." They stood in silence a while, before Harry spoke again. "In Slughorn's rooms just now-"

"Yeah," Cormac said. He stood awkwardly, like he didn't know what to do for once, and Harry felt a strange rush of emotion at the expression on his face.

Cormac was being kind of... cute?

How... cute.

"Sorry," he was saying, hand running at the back of his neck. "I just, that's how I... and I know I shouldn't, but..."

Harry smiled and shook his head. "You won't do it again?" he asked. Cormac shook his head.

"No," he agreed, then raised an eyebrow suggestively, suddenly regaining his confidence. "Not unless you want to."

"Promise?" Harry asked, taking the tiniest step closer.

"Promise," Cormac repeated, and Harry took another step closer.

"Good," he whispered, and then laid the gentlest kiss on Cormac's lips, just for a second. He pulled away and smiled, and then then turned to leave.

Instead Cormac grabbed his arm and spun him around. Harry's eyes widened in surprise, and as he opened his mouth to say something, Cormac took advantage of the parted lips, and kissed him hard enough to make him feel like he was melting.

When he finally backed away, the talker boy shot him a smirk - one that Harry could now admit was incredibly handsome despite also being obnoxious - and gave him a small wave before leaving him standing alone in the cupboard.

Harry wrapped his arms around his waist, staring at the doorway dazedly, and thought about tomorrow. Would they be public? Would Cormac want to keep it a secret? Vaguely, he imagined the look of dumbfounded shock on Ron's face, the utter dismay on Hermione's, and wanted to laugh. They'd support him, he knew, but they'd also have the most entertaining reactions.

It'd be funny.

He smiled. It was all going to be fine.


	13. Cyclic

**Cyclic**

Words: 2,684

Crossover: X-Men

Pairing: Logan/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: None, except maybe that Logan isn't very censored as a general rule.

* * *

Logan believed in reincarnation.

In fact, 'believe' wasn't even the right word. He _knew_ it was a thing. Having lived as long as he had, he'd seen things and, more importantly, he'd met people. People he'd met again, years later, looking younger. In particular, Logan had loved someone, and met him again and again, each time different and yet the same. And every time, he'd loved him more and more.

He wasn't always the same ethnicity, and didn't always have the same personality. He had different interests in different lives, and different morals in others. There were constants too, of course. He was always male - or rather, he was always a boy, no matter what body he'd been born into. He always looked the same - bright green eyes and wild black hair and a deceptively slight build and the most beautiful soul, which made Logan sound incredibly fucking sappy but it was true.

Always, in every life, Logan felt like a monster standing next to him, felt like a clumsy beast in comparison to his grace and delicacy. He touched his lover's soft skin and felt like he could break him in two, and the possibility horrified him. It didn't stop him. It _couldn't_ stop him.

The first time he'd met him, met Harry, was when he was still James Howlett. He was still young then, sickly, and Harry had been everything he had loved. And then they ran. And then Logan had thought he'd never see Harry again.

Except he did, years later, in the mountains of Canada. He met him in times of war and peace, on battlefields and boulevards and each time, he fell helplessly in love with him.

Each time, it ended in tragedy. Harry never lived long. He died fast, but aged fast too, whether he was human or not, mutant or not. He always left Logan before he was ready - not that he ever thought he _could_ be, but a part of Logan constantly wondered if it wasn't somehow his fault.

Harry was stubborn, and he was reckless. He ran into roads to save kittens, jumped into fights to stand up for what was right. He always died so young, barely having lived. He never made it past 30 for as long as Logan had known him, and over the years it became a challenge for him - 30 as the threshold. If Harry made it past 30, he was saved. He knew how stupid it was, how illogical, but slowly he became desperate to find Harry and to keep him safe until he reached that age.

He tried to fall in love with other people too. Women, not men, because otherwise he was afraid he'd call Harry's name where there should have been another's, but still it didn't work. He cared, certainly, but he could never delude himself for too long. Harry was the only one he could find it in himself to love.

And it felt like a curse a lot of the time. Sometimes, he wondered if the happiness he gained was even worth the pain after. He felt like a drug addict - helpless to keep coming back even as he knew he was destroying himself.

The X-men were a spontaneous thing. He'd never sought out company for extended periods of time except for his lovers, and he'd never given his loyalty to anybody but Harry, but the girl - Rogue - she was so terrified and young. She had seemed so sure of herself, talking like she knew what she was doing, but Logan could see the fear and loneliness. And he didn't care for much anymore - his morals by now were more than skewed - but he wondered what Harry would say, had he been present. Imagined what he would do, if he knew Logan had left a helpless girl on a secluded, icy roadside, and felt ashamed that he had ever even entertained the thought.

It was his job as part of the X-men that led him to Harry this time. The final time.

There had been constant reports for a while about a manor someplace in the countryside, at the edge of some village. The locals thought it was haunted, but a few mutants had been near and reported energy fluctuations coming from inside. ' _Like us, but different_ ,' they'd said, and eventually the professor decided it was worth a look.

It hadn't been 'haunted' for very long, so whoever it whatever was giving out the energy had only taken residence pretty recently.

There were four of them - Ororo, Jean, Hank and Logan himself. Hank had replaced Scott, mainly because if the person inside was unable to control themselves so completely then they were probably hurt. As a result, Scott had to remain behind in case of emergency - not that Logan was complaining.

They landed quite a way from the actual building, and walked the rest of the distance in complete silence. They were nearly at the door when they first felt it, almost like a wave of pure energy. It was violent, but not hostile, angry without being vindictive. Logan froze at the sensation, his heart aching in a way he'd mostly managed to ignore for the past few years. This was familiar, in a way he'd been afraid both of experiencing once again and terrified of never feeling for the rest of his life. He growled, low in his throat and his chest, and the wave cut off. His eyes widened, and he forgot that he wasn't alone. Instead, his claws unsheathed and he tore the door to shreds, running up the stairs as fast as he possibly could and taking several jumping shortcuts on his way.

His companions shouted behind him, voices panicked and angry as they rushed after him. Perhaps they were afraid he'd been hypnotized or something, but he couldn't care as he felt the distance between him and his target decreasing. It had been so long - longer than usual - and he'd been afraid he'd never see him again, but now here he was, more powerful than he'd ever been before.

He came to a stop before the door, breathing hard not from overexerting himself, but from the millions of possibilities in his head. He hoped, with a sudden and incredible intensity, that he hadn't been wrong, and opened the door quietly.

There was a figure in the corner of the room, huddled on a plain bed. He was covered in several blankets, but even as Logan watched two bright green eyes peeked out of the mound, fixing upon him with a startling clarity.

He couldn't move, mouth gaping as the blankets were unwound some more, until eventually a young man sat on the edge of the bed, eyes still fixed on him.

"Harry?" he whispered. He took a small, hesitant step forward, and the boy smiled at him and opened his arms in welcome.

Before he could even blink, he was enveloped in Logan's arms.

"I missed you, I missed you so much," he murmured under his breath, arms as tight as he dared about the soft body, and Harry gave as good as he got.

"You took so long," he whispered softly, touching Logan's cheeks and lips and hair almost reverently, stroking with slow, gentle fingers as if he was rememorizing the shape of his face. "You have no idea how long I waited."

Distantly, he registered that the other X-Men stood at the doorway to the bedroom, obviously shocked at the way Logan was behaving and the fact that he was blatantly ignoring their calls, but there was nothing in this world at the moment except soft green eyes and a smile he hadn't seen in lifetimes. Harry cupped his face, his smile loving and understanding and Logan rested his forehead against the boy's, just breathing in the scent of him and memorizing the feel of his body in his arms.

They were silent, and Hank, Jean, and Ororo had also stopped asking him what was going on. Logan could feel Harry's power coming off him, almost in waves, and yet it was much calmer now - controlled. Which bought him to another point.

"You okay?" he asked, voice gruff with emotion. He seemed embarrassed at his ridiculous display, but the worry was more prevalent as he leaned back and ran his hands over Harry's body to check for any injury.

"I'm fine," the boy replied softly. Logan looked at him, unimpressed, so Harry backtracked. "I wasn't," he admitted sheepishly, "but I will be." He smiled teasingly. "Now that you're here."

"Yeah?" Logan frowned, peeling back Harry's blankets to reveal a loose t-shirt and cotton pants. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, Logan," Harry laughed, then squeaked as Logan picked him up suddenly and without warning. The man smirked smugly, so Harry hit his chest in retaliation. "Brute!" he exclaimed, sulking.

"You're pouting," Logan told him matter-of-factly, to which Harry promptly insisted he wasn't.

"If you're done," Ororo interrupted gently. She was trying not to laugh, but it was kind of obvious from the awkwardly pursed lips and glittering eyes. Harry couldn't help but like her.

"I'm sorry," he replied. "Its just, we haven't seen each other in a long time."

"'A long time' is the understatement of the century, kid," Logan grumbled.

Harry frowned. "Not a kid," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jean looked confused. "Pardon me, but you do kinda look exactly like... a kid."

Harry seemed amused. "He's not." Logan's replied in his stead, arms tightening slightly.

"I'm older than I look," Harry corrected gently, "but not as old as all that, no. I'm not as old as Logan or anything." He shrugged. "I just remember my past lives."

"Your... past lives." Jean seemed flummoxed, and Hank was sporting a very similar expression. "What do you mean?"

"He means that he was alive, and then died, and then he was born again. And that the remembers the whole damn thing"

"Wait wait wait, reincarnation is a thing?"

"Yeah," Logan waited for anyone to argue, but though Hank looked particularly skeptical, nobody said anything.

Ororo laughed. "Whatever this is, I'm sure it can be discussed in more detail back at the school."

"Agreed," Hank said just as Harry asked "School?"

Logan groaned, and Harry looked over at him, eyebrow raised and obviously restraining a smile. "You're a _teacher_?"

"Hush, you. Don't you dare laugh."

"But it's funny _and_ ironic," Harry snickered. "You, a teacher! I never would've guessed." Logan frowned at him, then suddenly ducked his head to rub his cheek along Harry's hard.

"Ow ow ow, prickly. _Prickly_ ," the younger man swatted at him immediately, trying to push his face away to no avail. "Stop, Logan, I give!"

The others watched, bemused, as Harry finally managed to stop the assault on his personal, small hands curled around the mutant's chin. He sulked as Logan laughed, nose in the air and arms crossed, but Logan didn't seem to be concerned as he walked ahead of them towards the waiting jet.

The trip back to the school was spent in awkward silence on everyone's part except for Logan and Harry, who were ridiculously wrapped up in themselves. They had sequestered themselves away to a corner and whispered to each other the entire way, and though Logan was clearly uncomfortable with expressing the sheer amount of emotion he was experiencing, Harry seemed openly smitten, running his hands across Logan's fingers as if to make sure he was really there.

As always, the professor had seen them coming and sent Scott out to meet him. The man took one look at Logan, who'd once again hauled Harry into his arms despite protests to the contrary, and raised a questioning eyebrow at his girlfriend, who merely shrugged and interlaced her fingers with his.

Scott cleared his throat. "Hey Logan, you gonna introduce us?"

"Huh?" Logan looked up, frowning at him, then sighed gustily. "Harry, that's the douchebag with the car. Scott, this is Harry."

Harry frowned at him. "Be nice, Logan," he admonished, only to get a sharp grin in reply.

"Sure princess, if you give me the incentive to."

Harry let out such an affronted gasp that Hank - who'd started walking ahead of the group - looked back in surprise, but Logan didn't lose his smile. If anything, it grew more feral.

"Logan!" he exclaimed, cheeks red, staring at the bigger man, who just made a nonchalant questioning noise.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?" Harry continued, crossing his arms. "We've barely spent an hour together."

"Yeah, but it's been actual _years_ since I fuc-"

Harry slapped his hands over Logan's mouth, face almost glowing. "Stop it," he growled, embarrassed, making the man laugh and press a kiss to the wizard's palm.

They looked up when they finally arrived at the office, walking in single file with Logan and Harry coming in last.

The professor was waiting for them, smiling benignly from behind the desk as the entered the room. Harry flushed, embarrassed, at the look of amusement on the old man's face but didn't look away as Logan sat him down onto a chair, standing behind him.

"Logan," the man greeted. "Won't you introduce us?"

Harry looked up at Logan from the corner of his eye, watching for a reaction. The man grunted acquiescingly, bracing strong, capable hands across the back of Harry's chair, and it took just that look for Harry to understand that Logan respected this man, and that he cared for him.

"Chuck, this is Harry. Harry, the professor." He ran quick fingers across the younger man's nape. "He's the guy that runs this school."

Harry smiled. "Pleased to meet you, professor."

"Charles Xavier." The man replied, eyes bright and Harry realised why Logan liked him. "Call me Charles, Harry."

"Hey, that's nice and all, but we _still_ don't know who you really are. Or what you were doing there."

Harry turned to Scott, absentmindedly shushing Logan, who was growling at the man. "You're right," he said. "If you'd give me the chance?" His smile softened his words, but still he saw Scott flush as his girlfriend shot him and exasperated look, and he turned back to the man in charge.

"I was sick," he said. "I'm not sure _exactly_ why, but to be fair it's kinda obvious what caused it. Essentially, I had too much harmful magic inside of me, and it was making me ill." He shrugged, clasping his hands in his lap. "The point is my magic went a little haywire and I couldn't control myself anymore."

"So you isolated yourself," Logan said from behind him sounding completely unsurprised, and Harry nodded.

"So I isolated myself," he repeated softly

"You seem fine now?" Charles questioned, raising an eyebrow. Harry reddened a little.

"Yeah," he breathed. "That, ummm. That was actually just lucky circumstance."

He could practically _feel_ Logan grinning as the professor leaned forward curiously. "How so?"

He coughed. "Actually, I just needed someone else's energy to stabilise me. Someone I was... _close_ to?"

He hoped that was enough.

Charles' eyes widened, and his lips turned up in a knowing smile. "I see," he chuckled. "Well."

He turned to Logan and raised his eyebrows, and then Harry was being tossed over a broad shoulder as Logan turned towards the door. "Well then folks," he called, ignoring Harry's yelp of surprise. "I'll see you guys tomorrow. Any further questions will be answered then."

And, completely deaf to Harry's squeaky protests, he opened the door and made to walk out. At the entrance, he turned back with a wicked grin, completely unfazed by the fists beating on his back.

"Maybe," he added, and then he was gone, Harry's angry exclamations fading as the two lovers made their way further down the hallway, leaving the rest of the team in awkward silence.

"Well," Hank said stiffly, and that was all it took for the room to explode into laughter.

Certainly there'd be no lack of entertainment with Harry Potter about.


	14. Succour

**Succour**

Words: 1,949

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: Characters are a little OOC, maybe. Or perhaps I just forced it, idk.

* * *

"You're staring again."

Draco jerked at the sudden voice in his ear, gaze landing on his uneaten breakfast. He looked up to see Pansy, studiously reading the book in her lap as a forkful of mashed potatoes made its way to her mouth.

"At what?" he asked. Her eyes remained fixed, and she didn't reply. Draco frowned. "At what?" he repeated, a little more forcefully.

She looked up, unimpressed. "What do you think?"

When Draco only stared blankly, she huffed as if Draco was trying her patience, and gestured vaguely toward the other end of the hall. "Potter."

Immediately, Draco's cheeks warmed, and he scowled. "I wasn't!"

She raised an eyebrow. "You were." She lifted her fork again, mouth open, but then seemed to think better of it, and put it back down, frowning faintly down at her plate as if her appetite had left her.

"Really, Draco. This is unbecoming," she commented airily as she reached across the table to grab an apple instead. "Either stop, or go over and talk to him. And if you absolutely _must_ stare, do it discreetly? I doubt I'm the only one to notice."

She didn't say much more as she stood and walked out, back straight, leaving Draco looking after her open-mouthed.

His jaw shut with a snap as he frowned, gripping the edge of the table. He chanced a look across to the Gryffindor table, only to turn his head violently when he made eye contact with Potter.

"I wasn't staring," he mumbled to himself.

After a while he couldn't help but look over again. It was strange, but he really couldn't stop looking for Potter in a crowd, almost instinctively. One might expect to see Gryffindor's resident hero socialising and laughing, except the boy was always just sat there quietly every time Draco happened to look. He still sat with his friends - the Weasel and Granger, but whilst his peers shouted across the table towards each other and laughed uproariously at each other's jokes, Potter just remained silent, as if he wasn't even there. Weasley and Granger were murmuring quietly, heads together, and once in a while would both look worriedly over, but Potter didn't seem to notice.

Draco frowned. Not that it concerned him. He looked back down at his plate, and suddenly dinner didn't seem so appetizing anymore. It _didn't_ concern him, never had and probably never would. So why did that thought hurt?

He sighed gustily and stood up, straightening his robes. Theodore looked at him, opening his mouth to ask him where he was going, but Draco just shook his head and left the great hall without another word.

He made his way straight to the common room, but stopped halfway, freezing awkwardly in the middle of the thankfully empty hallway. He didn't want to see anybody, and the feeling was so strong that the idea of looking at other people, of even passing them on the way to the dormitories felt so completely abhorrent that he simply couldn't make himself go. His arms dropped to his sides limply, and he took a turn into a quieter hallway instead.

A few hours later found him wandering the corridors in the late evening, lost in confusing thought. Unfortunately for him, his thoughts were still centred around Potter and his lost smile and very green, very sad eyes. He was skinny again, Draco couldn't help but have noticed - thin as a stick, and he looked so haunted Draco could barely stand to look at him without needing to take a break to calm down.

He supposed it made sense for him to look that way, after everything he'd seen last year. That wasn't the off thing, no. What _was_ strange, was how much Draco cared.

He shouldn't, he knew. He'd always hated Potter, and the other boy had always hated him. There was just _something_ between them that had always pushed him to antagonize Potter, to see the fire in his eyes and push for the sharp retort back. And yet, searching, he couldn't find that desire in himself anymore.

He'd tried, at the start of this year, to convince Potter into arguing with him again, but the way he'd just turned and ignored him, as if Draco wasn't even worth a second glance. Or, he thought now, as if he couldn't be bothered anymore, and Draco didn't know which was sadder. And now there were these feelings, these strange impulses that pushed Draco to comfort the boy, to care for him and hug him and-

And what a coincidence, that the alcove he passed now just _happened_ to house the very person he couldn't stop thinking about. Potter was leaning against the wall, legs curled into his body and cheek resting on his knees. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, and for a moment Draco thought he was asleep, but then he moved closer and Potter's eyes snapped open.

He let out a strange whine and curled in onto himself tightly, and the fear in his eyes made Draco burn with something like pity and rage. The moment was over before he knew it, and suddenly he was faced with indignant green eyes staring straight at him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" the boy said, causing Draco to frown.

He ignored the question, instead laughing flatly. "Were you actually _sleeping_ here, Potter? Not used to having a bed to sleep in after so long with your pet weasel?"

Potter's eyes flashed with something unrecognizable, and he sat up. "Shove off, Malfoy," he said, but it didn't contain even half the venom it usually did, and Draco deflated like a balloon that'd been popped.

"You're... not okay," he said awkwardly, then cursed at himself. Potter looked at him, confused and silent.

Draco sighed. "I just, I've noticed. You seem so... lost." He floundered a little. "I don't like it," he admitted quietly. Potter laughed loudly, and it grated on his ears like sharp shards of shattered glass.

"That's surprising," he sneered, sounding both sarcastic and scarily close to tears, and Draco wanted to hold all the broken pieces together but he didn't know _how_.

"And here I thought you'd just _love_ to see me like this," Harry was saying now, and yes, he was Harry now, because _Potter_ could never sound like this, not in a million years. The change of name, even if it was just in his head, made the boy seem so much more fragile, and Draco took another step without even realising he'd done it.

"I'm not my _father_ ," he whispered harshly. "And I'm not _happy_ to see you hurt. I just-"

He took another step closer, and Harry shrank back. Draco stopped, moving his palms up flat like Harry was a frightened animal, and tried to make himself look as harmless as possible.

"Let me help?" he asked, and then stepped closer, and closer, until he was practically nose to nose with Harry, who stared at him wide-eyed and confused.

"Let me take care of you," he said now, and he didn't know where the desire came from but it was there, in his heart, in his throat, urging him to take this boy into his arms and kiss him until he forgot everything. ' _I won't find myself here again,_ ' he thought suddenly, and he moved his arms slowly to wrap around Harry in response. There was such affection in his heart - not love, but he thought it could be.

He just wanted to heal this boy.

He leaned down, arms tight around Harry, and pressed firm lips against his mouth in a chaste kiss.

Harry was trembling, awkward and unhappy and uncertain, but Draco stayed there, firm, until he opened his mouth hesitantly. And then they were kissing properly, wet and warm and Draco felt it all so acutely he thought he'd dream about this for days, feel the phantom push of soft lips hours later when he lay in bed alone, trying to sleep.

He kissed back hard, showing Harry he was there, wanting to feel like he would be here forever, and Harry let him, opening his mouth and panting into Draco's in turn.

When he finally pulled away, Draco couldn't help but stay close and leave soft little kisses at intervals as they stood with foreheads touching and eyes closed.

Harry's lips felt so nice, so soft, and it wasn't like Draco had never kissed anyone before (or been kissed) but this felt so much more different. There was something burning in his chest, in his stomach, but it wasn't lust. It was softer than that, aching in a way less physical but more painful.

He kissed Harry again, just a peck really, and then moved back enough so that he could look at the boy without his eyes crossing. He didn't loosen his hold though, keeping his gaze on kiss-swollen lips and dark eyelashes resting on delicate skin, eyes hidden from his sight.

Harry's eyebrows were strangely knitted, a little as if he were in pain, but as the two of them stood in silence and their breathing calmed, his face relaxed until he looked almost serene. Draco sighed then, and Harry opened his eyes to look him straight in his.

"This is unexpected," he said quietly, as if speaking too loudly would break the mood. Draco couldn't help but smile at the honest want in those eyes, and at how badly Harry was hiding it.

"It was," he admitted. "For both of us." His fingers tightened on Harry's hip involuntarily as an unpleasant thought occurred to him.

"Do you regret it?"

Harry went a little red, but shook his head. "Maybe I should," he replied, "but I don't."

Draco nodded. "I don't either," he clarified, just in case. Misunderstandings could grow to be painful things to deal with.

He wanted to ask Harry if he was feeling better, but thought better of it. Instead he let his arms loosen around the boy and intertwined his fingers with the Gryffindor's as casually as he could, starting to pull him gently down the hall.

"It's late," he said by way of explanation. Turning into a bigger corridor, they could see the night sky out of the large windows, and the fact that the castle was completely empty as far as they could see told Draco that it was probably very close to curfew, if not a little after it.

Harry said nothing as they walked up to Gryffindor tower, but as they drew closer his hold on Draco's hand tightened and he walked ever closer to Draco, almost unconsciously. At the entrance to the tower he loosened his grip, turning to go, but Draco didn't let him.

Instead he pulled Harry back, and leant in slowly enough that the boy could stop him if he so wished. Harry didn't, so Draco kissed him again, just on the lips, for a long minute before he let go.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" he asked softly. Harry nodded, a hesitant smile blooming on his face as he took a step back.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Draco," he replied, and then he was gone.

Draco stood there a while, staring after his classmate, before he remembered himself and started a swift stride towards the dungeons. The evening had left him with a strange feel, almost as if it had been a moment in a dream or another realm, but Draco didn't feel panicked or incredulous now that he was away from the source, only calm.

That night was the best night's sleep he'd had since he could remember.


	15. Betrayal

**Betrayal**

Words: 1,126

Crossover: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Pairing: Sozin/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: Character death.

* * *

As the man collapsed, Sozin straightened his back and looked down on him. His face changed, all the panic and camaraderie and repentance sliding off his face like water.

He watched as his once best friend lay dying, begging his for his aid and cruelly quelled the urge to help. ' _Weak_ ', his mind jeered at him as his heart protested, so instead he told Roku the truth. The only truth left to tell.

"Without you," he said, eyes hardening, "all my plans are suddenly possible."

This had not been planned. This was not what he'd wanted, but here he was - his only obstacle at his feet in submission. If Sozin was anything, he was a man who took advantage of circumstance. Fate worked for him, not the other way around.

And he wanted to cheer with his success, laugh in the face of Roku's pain but the old man was looking at him with such sad, sad eyes that he couldn't find it in himself. "I have a vision for the future, Roku," he tried to justify, to explain, but the Avatar's eyes were filled with such disappointment he wanted to run as far as he could. And then-

And then Roku said the words that made him burn with both sorrow and shame.

"Is this what you did to Harry?" he asked, barely able to breathe between the painful coughs that wracked his frail, elderly frame but able to say this, able to make Sozin remember the man he'd once betrayed - yes, just like this - as he too looked on with sad, sad eyes, and had he told himself this then too? Had he convinced his heart to quieten, shut away the part of him that burned in aversion at even the _thought_ of hurting his beloved? Is that how he'd done it, how he'd told himself it wasn't his _fault_? He breathed, and all of a sudden he just wanted to burn it all to the ground, and there was _so much hatred_ -

But who did he hate? Did he hate Harry, for not joining him, for not supporting his life's mission? Or perhaps this world, for putting them in such circumstance that there was no other choice, that he had to hurt the man he loved so?

But that was a long time ago, and Sozin had become bitter by now, unable to love and grieve as freely as he once had been able to so passionately, back when he was still young.

"Perhaps," he whispered, and they both knew this was as much an admission of his guilt as Sozin would ever allow himself to make.

"You betrayed him." Roku was dying, and Sozin realised that he should leave before he too fell prey to the toxic gas and heat of the volcano that was tearing this island asunder but he couldn't help himself.

"Betrayed _him_? he replied, tone incredulous and rising in volume. "He betrayed _me_! He should have stood by my side!"

He didn't know what he wanted from Roku, but it certainly wasn't this. The old man barely seemed affected, merely smiling sadly as he looked upon the face of a man who was once his brother, looked upon the face of a man who had become his enemy, and wondered where he had gone wrong. He wondered if he'd have been able to save Harry, had he not been so lax in his duties. There was barely any breath left in him, and he knew that he couldn't change Sozin's mind now. And yet-

"And yet, he loved you," he whispered, and watched the emotions flicker across Sozin's face as the man failed to hide them in time. He knew what the man was remembering, knew also that it wouldn't change a thing but what kind of Avatar would be if he didn't even try? What kind of a man had he been, that he'd not even known the end of his own friend?

He remembered, in his last moments, the harsh words he used to discourage his emperor, and wished he could go back and soften them. He remembered Harry, the three of them laughing and eating and teasing each other, and recalled the day he was told Harry was no more. Remembered the cold face of the Firelord as the man recounted his lover's death, and how he had not questioned further despite the unease in his heart.

He wished he could have done something. But he was forced to realise that he was only human. Hindsight was 20/20, and now Roku wondered if, in his quest to please everyone, he'd somehow managed to fail them all instead.

Sozin left then, left behind the dying body of his greatest obstacle and his best friend, and remembered soft green eyes and gentle, tanned hands, remembered a smile that shone like the sun until he'd so cruelly snuffed it out, and remembered that once upon a time he'd killed the boy he'd claimed to love so intensely.

What kind of a monster was he?

And it was now, in the aftermath of the destruction of everything he'd held dear, that Sozin realised what he'd done. He didn't hate Harry - how could he? - and not the world to which he was so attached. No, he hated himself, for being _capable_ , for hurting the one person he'd promised to never hurt and what were his promises worth now, when he'd broken the biggest if them all?

' _I'm sorry_ ', he'd said as he lay dying, and Sozin had dismissed the words in his rage, thought _too little, too late_ , and later he'd wrapped all the pain and regret and put them away where no light could touch it. And now, with a few words, Roku had brought those words to the forefront of his mind, and Sozin hurt at the thought of _being_ himself, disgusted at the thought of having done the things he'd done.

Once upon a time, he'd been content in the joy and love of his kingdom and his consort, and then he'd grown greedy. And though he was sorry, how could he stop now? When the world was on the edge of being united under one banner, when the comet - and wasn't that a divine sign in itself? - was coming to greet him?

He remembered soft kisses under the moonlight, the sensation of loving an agile, beloved body on soft sheets. He remembered pleading and demands to _stop, you're hurting them, balance must be kept Sozin don't you_ see _the pain and death you cause_ , and locked them all away again.

He'd been so desperate. But it was too late for regrets.

His dragon flew, and he didn't look back.


	16. Recoup

**Recoup**

Words: 2,262

Crossover: The Infernal Devices

Pairing: William Herondale/Harry Potter

Beta: None.

Warnings: None.

* * *

The knock came late at night, rousing Charlotte from the light daze she'd fallen into. She startled, looking around blearily for the large clock on the wall, and saw that it was quarter to two.

The boys still weren't back, but this wasn't them. They'd have just walked in and perhaps tried to sneak past.

The door sounded again, and Charlotte hurried to stand. Will and Jem may not be back but the rest of the Institute slept, and she would hate for them to wake up.

It was storming heavily outside, and for a second Charlotte wanted to ignore the guest - an irrational fear of murderers and psychopaths alighting in her chest, but the moment was brief, and she creaked open the doors a little.

"Hello?" she called. A hooded figure stepped forward into the light, revealing green eyes and pale skin, and Charlotte straightened.

"Hullo," the boy replied, trying at a friendly smile, but he was shivering so hard it looked instead like he was holding back tears. "I- is this the Institution?"

Charlotte nodded, automatically stepping back a little, and he smiled a little more gratefully but did not press forward into the space she'd given him. "I'm looking for a William Herondale," he said, and though his tone was soft and blasé Charlotte could see the nervous clenching of his fingers around the strap of his worn leather satchel.

Something tight in her muscles relaxed little when he said the name. "Oh," she said. "Well you've certainly come to the correct place, except that he's unfortunately not here at the moment."

"He's not?" The boys lips twisted a little in a strange way, but then he was smiling benignly at her again. "I'm sorry, do you... that is, do you know where I could find him?"

"I have no clue what that boy gets up to," she laughed, "but he should be back any time now. It's certainly late enough." Her eyes softened as she took on his clearly soaked figure, and she stepped back to open the door wider. "Come in dear," she said. "You can wait inside just fine."

His eyes widened, and with a grateful "thank you!" he stepped inside and lowered his hood. As he did, his face was cast into full light for the first time, and Charlotte had to take a moment to admire his beauty.

It was a classical sort of beauty, the type that is simple but enchanting. His eyes were wide and bright green, and were perfectly framed by the heaviest, darkest lashes. Thick black curls sat atop his head in an impossible tangled mess, and Charlotte had to stifle the urge to run her fingers through the hair to neaten it. His skin was pale and smooth, but his cheeks were a healthy rose as the sudden warmth of the building manifested on his cold skin in the form of a blush. Full, pink lips were turned up at the corners in an open expression, and his smile was so pleasant and friendly Charlotte couldn't imagine him as anything but innocent, despite how utterly naive that sentiment was.

She stared for an inappropriately long moment before realising herself, and gasped softly. "Sorry, I just-" she waved a little with her hands. "I- may I take your cloak?"

"Oh!" the boy's eyes widened, and he hurried to remove the wet, black fabric from around his shoulders, revealing black trousers, a soft blue jumper, and black boots that came halfway up his shins. She took the cloak from him, noting the small, work-roughened hands and short, clean fingernails. As she reached forward to take a hold of the wet fabric, she couldn't help but notice the lack of black marks peeking from under his sleeves or collar. They could all be hidden, of course, but more than likely the boy simply didn't have any runes drawn into his skin. A mundane with the Sight, then? Someone in trouble?

Perhaps even someone from Will's past, she thought, and regarded the stranger with new eyes. The boy, whilst being clearly very male and at least in his later teenage years - Will's peer then - was almost as short as she, who was short for even a woman, and awfully skinny to boot.

She couldn't help a frown at this, but didn't let him see as she lead him to the parlour to sit down and rest his legs. It wasn't surprising to be an underfed child in London, but the way this boy held herself told Charlotte he came form a well to-do family, and that painted a slightly more sinister picture. Nevertheless, she told herself it was none of her business as she set about making tea for the guest. They all had their stories here, and if Charlotte knew anything it was that people would only talk when they were ready to.

"I didn't catch your name," Charlotte hinted to the boy as she set the tea tray down in front of him. He looked up at her, smiling sheepishly.

"I'm so sorry," he replied, clasping the edge of the table. "My name is Harry Potter. I'm... an old friend of Will's."

"Aaah," she nodded as if she understood, though she did not. "He hasn't mentioned you before?" Though to be fair, he didn't mention much of anything.

"I'm not really surprised," Harry replied, and looked so sad in that moment she wanted nothing more than to comfort him. "He's probably not the type to talk about home all that much, right?"

"Right," she agreed, though something in her bristled at the implication that the Institute was not home. She shook the feeling off as foolish on her part, and extended her hand. "Charlotte Branwell," she introduced herself. "Myself and my husband run this place."

"Pleased to meet you." Harry shook her hand just as they both heard the front door open, and Charlotte watched as Harry's eyes widened, trepidation and want dancing across his face. She stood, and immediately the furious whispers silenced at the sound of her chair moving back.

"Will, Jem," she called. "Come in here please."

There was a gusty sigh, and then two sets of footsteps approached. As they neared, Charlotte could hear Jem telling his _parabatai_ that this was all his fault before the two boys stepped through the doorway.

"Charlotte," the tall, silver-haired shadowhunter greeted her before Will moved past him to say something, only to be struck silent as Harry stood and turned to face him.

"William," he said, and his voice had an oddly vulnerable tremble in it that made Charlotte want to look away. She couldn't help but feel as if she were intruding upon a highly private moment.

"Harry?" Will's voice was less open as he stared at the boy, blue eyes wide in shock and surprise. "What on earth-"

"Do you have _any_ idea how long I-" Harry started, clutching at the fabric on his chest, but Will cut him off.

"I walked away for a _reason_!" he interrupted, voice harsh. "I didn't tell you where I was going _for a reason_! I didn't _want_ you to find me!"

"And that was cruel of you," Harry told him, straightening his back. "You had _no right_ -"

"I _am_ cruel Harry-" Will started, but this time broke off by the calming hand his _parabatai_ placed on his shoulder.

"Will," the boy said. Will looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience.

"Jem, this is Harry," he introduced, waving his hands in the guest's direction. "Harry, Jem. Now," he said, turning to both of the other shadowhunters in the room. "Please leave whilst I converse with my... _friend_."

Harry flinched as if slapped at the venom in that tone, his mouth set in an unhappy line. He wouldn't meet Charlotte's eyes as she slowly left, eyeing Will in a nonverbal order to calm down. Jem walked out after her, but not without a disapproving look at Will's tone. Not that the young man seemed to care.

When they'd both left, Will closed the door behind them and gave Harry a meaningful look, which prompted the boy to reveal a stick of wood that had been up his sleeve all along, which he waved in the direction of the door accompanied by a few Latin words muttered under his breath.

"There," he said, glaring at Will. "Now they can't hear us."

"Brilliant," he replied, his tone heavily sarcastic. "Now tell me what, in the name of the Angel, possessed you to come here."

"Apart from that I'm finally _able_ to?" Harry snarled, crossing his arms over his best as if he was cold. "I just graduated from Hogwarts, William. It took me a while to find you. I haven't stopped looking since you walked out."

"Why-" Will broke off, running his hand over his face in frustration. "I left for a reason," he repeated, his voice hoarse. "I didn't _want_ to be found."

"I was _worried_!" Harry exclaimed, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "You just _disappeared_ so suddenly, without a word. I had to find out from Cecily that you'd gone, and that Ella had _died_. From _Cecily_."

"I-" the air seemed to whoosh out of Will then, and suddenly he just looked tired. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know you were close with her."

"Not as close as I was with you," Harry replied, his voice soft. "And I lost the both of you in one fell swoop. Will, why would you leave me?"

Will swallowed heavily, closing his eyes. His eyebrows were knitted, and his arms were tensed where they were crossed around his chest, enough so that the shapes of his biceps were apparent under the material of his black shirt. He wouldn't look Harry in the eyes as he shook his head, unfolding them and instead bracing them against a table behind him.

"I left to keep you all safe," he whispered eventually. Harry stepped closer.

"From what, William?"

"I-" Will broke off, "I can't- don't call me William," he growled. Harry raised an eyebrow, and he sighed, closing his eyes tight. "Why can't you just believe me?"

"Will." Harry's voice was incredibly gentle as he neared until they were standing nearly toe-to-toe, and he rested a hand on Will's upper arm. "William, you were _twelve_."

"So?"

" _So_ , opening that _Pyxis_ and letting out that demon was not your fault. Your sister's death was not your fault. And-"

"And?" Will's voice was strangely angry, but Harry never flinched, calm green eyes looking steadily into his own.

"And you were _twelve_ ," he repeated. "You made a split second decision in a moment of fear, and you've held on to it. You've convinced yourself it's the only way, but its _not_."

"You know nothing," Will whispered, but Harry's touch was so gentle and loving he couldn't find it in himself to pull away. He _should_. He was endangering Harry like this, letting him touch his cursed self, but he couldn't let Harry's face crumple in hurt as he knew it would.

And he hated himself for his selfishness.

Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but thought the better of it. Instead he nodded and stepped a little closer, and Will couldn't help but notice the large differences in their heights and body shape.

Harry was covered in a loose, soft jumper, so he really couldn't be sure of how fit he was, but his shoulders, while strong, were still petite where Will had grown up and out. He was so much smaller than him, the difference between them even more pronounced than it had been when they were still both children, and though Will knew Harry was more than capable of taking care of himself, he still felt the urge to shield him from all hurts.

Harry put a hand on his other arm, leaning in until their faces were barely an inch apart, and said, "you know I have nothing to fear."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Will asked, unable to keep his hands from holding on to Harry's waist.

"I mean, I can protect myself from demons. I have the means."

"So do the shadowhunters," Will whispered, and it sounded like an invitation.

Harry smiled, just an upturn of his lips, and nodded. "But not as completely as me," he added. "I have _nothing_ to fear." And then, moving his hand across Will's chest, he rested his palm over the shadowhunter's heart. "Not from being with _you_."

And this was weakness, Will knew. If he took Harry back, who was to stop him from seeing his family again, from caring again, from letting Charlotte and Henry into his heart? But even as Will thought this he felt so tired that he just couldn't find it in himself to fight the fierce love that shone in Harry's eyes. Because Harry would not be turned away by gentle persuasion, and after everything Will could not find it in himself to resort to harsh words. Not again.

"Harry,'' he said, not knowing what to say but remembering days spent up in the trees and nights spent in the same bed, of reading together and growing together and _I love you_ when they should have been too young to understand, but did anyway.

"I know," Harry replied, lips soft on Will's cheek, "I love you also."

Will leaned their foreheads against each other's, touching their noses together - just the tips, and smiled like he hadn't smiled in what felt like forever. "I love you best."


	17. Renegue

**Renegue**

Words: 1,206  
Pairing: Justin Finch-Fletchley/Harry Potter  
Beta: None.  
Warnings: None.

* * *

He opened the door to silence and lights turned off. He quieted his breathing, hoping that Harry was in bed by now so as to not know what time he came in, but it was not to be. As soon as he walked into the living room to get to the kitchen, he found his lover, sitting on the sofa.

"Harry?" he said incredulously. "What are you doing, sitting in the dark at this hour?"

His lover was silent for a while, sitting so still Justin wondered for a moment if the man was even aware that he was standing there.

"Sit down," Harry said eventually, and he would've protested except Harry's voice was hard and flat in a way he hadn't heard in years.

They sat in silence, the clock ticking loudly in the stillness. Justin wanted to fidget, but somehow his own body wouldn't let him. After a while, Harry finally spoke.

"Do you remember, Justin, the day you married me?" he didn't raise those green eyes to look up at him, instead focusing on his hands, which lay entwined and deceptively relaxed in his lap.

"I do," he replied. He didn't like where this was going.

"I... I didn't see the point in it, you know? But you said-" Harry took a breath, glaring at his hands. "You told me you wanted to make your vows to me. You said, 'Harry, I want everyone to know I am devoted to you.' So I said yes."

There was a pause. Then Justin swallowed, and repeated, "I remember."

"Do you remember the vows you made to me, my husband?" his voice was so low, so quiet that Justin should have to strain his ears to hear it, but his entire body felt hot and active with adrenaline, and in the silence of the room Harry may as well have been shouting.

"Harry?" he tried. "If you're angry-"

"I'm not," his smaller spouse interrupted. "And if you don't remember, I'll tell you."

He looked up at Justin finally, eyes dull with pain and disappointment and a tiredness that made Justin's bones ache with the phantom of that exhaustion. "I asked if you'd love me forever, and you said - do you remember what you said?" he asked, laughing bitterly. "You said that nobody could possibly promise that and speak the truth. 'I won't lie to you, Harry.' Oh, and then, and then you said you'd _try_. "

He looked accusingly at Justin, as if waiting for a response. He didn't. Harry smiled angrily, as if he hadn't expected anything else. "You said that even if you couldn't promise to always love me, you _could_ promise to always try. And I have waited for so long, and tried for so long, and _you haven't_ ," his voice broke, and he crossed his arms over his chest as if he was cold.

"You broke your vows to me."

"I just, I've been busy, okay? You're making a big deal-"

"Am I?" Harry interrupted. "Really? I never see you anymore. Not for the past year, at the very _least_. When was the last time we shared a meal, Justin? Cast your mind back, I can wait," he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, eyes flashing. "When was the last time you _made love_ to me? Do you even remember?"

"I told you, I've been busy. You know my job requires a lot of me, you knew this when you married me."

"Don't turn this on me. I know exactly where you go, and how you spend your time."

"What? You _followed_ me?" he shouted, outraged.

"You think that little of me?" Harry replied. He'd leant back, put an arm around the back of the sofa. He looked calm and relaxed, but they both knew what a lie that was. "I just have a _lot_ of friends, dear, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that a fair few people still want to get on my good books, no matter how I feel about my fame. And that's a lot of people who care about me, A lot of people who have noticed you and your _pastimes_."

"I haven't _cheated_ -"

"And that's it? You haven't cheated, so everything is fine? You haven't been _here_ , Justin. You haven't talked to me or spent time with me and this isn't a _relationship_ anymore. I've had more to do with our neighbours than _you_ in the past year. I've tried, so hard. I though, maybe he's bothered by something. I've tried to be there for you, for you to talk to. I've tried to give you space. I've tried everything I can but guess what? I'm only human. And I'm only capable of so much."

"So what's that mean?" Justin asked. His stomach felt queasy, and it hurt a little to breathe. "You're just leaving? You're giving up?"

Harry stared at him silently, as if looking into him. Then his mouth curled up in a sad smile, and he stood. "Yeah," he said. "I'm giving up. I'm worn out, Justin. I have nothing more to give," he paused, as if unsure whether to move forward or not. Instead, he looked away.

"I'm so tired of this, you know? I just don't know anymore. So yes, I'm giving up. But you should know that _you_ gave up long before now," he reached for the ring around his finger, the one Justin had never once seen off it in the six years they'd been married, and slid it off. His skin was paler where it had sat, white against the gentle gold of his tan.

Harry looked at it for a while, reading the inscription on the inside. It wasn't anything ridiculous, merely Justin's name written in delicate, looping script, but it had made Harry happy to know he carried his husband's name with him. He smiled bitterly and lay it down now, gently, on the glass top of the coffee table.

"I... I'll send you the papers later," he said. He couldn't look at Justin now, not when his heart was breaking at the thought of leaving the one man he loved. But Harry couldn't possibly go on like this, no matter how much he loved him.

Justin didn't say a word as Harry turned and walked to the still dark hallway, where, by the stairs, lay a suitcase, and hefted it up to balance on its wheels. He rolled it over to the door, and turned and smiled awkwardly without looking Justin in the eyes. He looked more like he wanted to cry.

"Goodbye," he said softly, and then he was gone, a lonely figure in the night.

Justin collapsed into the armchair behind him, and buried his face in his hands. He'd imagined Harry would always be there, but at some point he'd stopped treating him like a person and more like a fact of life. He'd taken him for granted, and God knows Harry had bought it up multiple times. They'd fought about it, they'd argued and even bought other people in to ask to mediate, and yet still he'd returned to doing the exact same thing. It was nobody's fault but his own.

And now it was too late.


	18. Espouse

**Espouse**

Words: 2,483  
Crossover: Supernatural  
Pairing: Death/Harry Potter  
Beta: None.  
Warnings: None.

* * *

They were in the middle of nowhere, Nevada, tracking the movement of spontaneous and strange weather reports - rainstorms and snowstorms in the middle of the desert, starting without warning and ending just as suddenly. And on top of all the freaky weather, Sam had researched and found an alarming number of death omens popping up that correlated with it, which meant there was more than something fishy going on. Something that was practically advertising itself to them.

So, of course, the both of them had packed themselves into the Impala and taken off into the sunset, and were now traversing the long, empty roads running across the equally empty deserts that the state was known for (apart from Vegas) in an attempt to follow the trail.

They'd been to each of the six locations with the signs, and at the last Dean had marked the places onto a map in hopes that it'd point the way to the next to reveal alarming results. To an untrained eye, they may just have formed a circle, but Sam and Dean both agreed it was more likely a pentagram - and that the area they were interested in was most likely right in the middle.

It was telling too. There had been a town there once, a long time ago, but it was now standing absolutely empty, all the inhabitants having either died in crazy weird circumstances or left to escape the traumatic memories. The whole thing would ordinarily reek of demon activity, and Dean insisted it probably was, except that Sam felt something was off about the whole thing. None of it was quite _right_ \- the details were off, like something close but not quite the same as demons, and it bothered him endlessly. But after the first few times he'd tried to talk to Dean, only to be rebuffed, he kept his mouth shut.

They arrived at the empty town as evening fell, and were greeted with the very definition of a ghost town. Doors still hung open, roads empty and dust-covered, and Sam shivered as a heavy feeling descended over them. The whole town had the same atmosphere as an abandoned, haunted house, but so much heavier. So potent he could almost _taste_ the death on his tongue.

"This whole place is abandoned," he whispered, almost to himself, but Dean heard and snorted next to him.

"Yeah, exactly. Perfect place to hide."

"Okay, so where do we go from here?" The taller man asked, turning to look at his brother.

Dean shrugged, not looking away from the road. "You tell me."

"Well," Sam looked out of the widow, trying to look past the buildings. "Reports show the creepy weather is mostly around the centre of town. And," he added as they turned a corner, "it seems there's a church smack bang in the middle of it all."

"A _church_?" Dean sounded incredulous, but Sam couldn't fault him for his shock. "Really?

The brunette nodded. "Yeah, and look," he said, gesturing before them as they turned a corner at leisure. "That's it right there."

They'd made their way into the centre of the small town, where an old church stood tall and dark. The oddest thing about it wasn't even the cold chill emanating from the place, or the strange shadows that made the place seem darker.

No, the oddest thing was the ridiculous amount of tiny, dark shapes that stood along the rooftops in more or less complete silence. When Dean had parked the car, Sam got out and took a step closer, squinting up to see if he could recognise the shapes as the evening grew darker. Just as Dean got out and walked closer, he stiffened.

"Dean," he whispered. "Dean, those are _crows_."

Dean frowned heavily, his hand automatically reaching for the gun in his belt as if by habit. "Must be something incredibly powerful in there, Sammy."

"Yeah," the man nodded, pulling his attention away from the rooftops and into his brother. "But also, whatever's in there isn't _hurting_ anyone, Dean."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's voice went a little sharp, but Sam ignored the tone and carried on.

"I mean, what are we risking our lives for here? Nobody lives here. Nobody's in danger except us."

Dean shook his head. "For now, Sam. These things always escalate. Besides," he added, turning to stare his brother in the eye, "what if this was what drove all these people away? Killed half of them in freaky accidents and scared the rest away?"

"I-" Sam started, but Dean interrupted.

"With everything going on right now, I wouldn't be surprised if those things in there were getting ready to move into another town and terrorise a whole new bunch of people. And I'd rather not give them that chance."

With these words, the older man moved purposefully forward towards the entrance of the church. Sam followed him, but Dean had pushed open the doors before he could reach him, and was frozen in place.

"What?" Sam asked just as he came to stand next to his brother, but Dean didn't reply, and when Sam looked he understood why.

They were looking at a wedding.

The bride - though she was not wearing a dress, but a set of robes, had just made her way up to the altar, and was turning to stand face to face with her groom. The reason neither of them had turned away, however, was not the fact that they'd interrupted a marriage ceremony, but that there were things decidedly _wrong_ about it.

Apart from the fact that the event was occurring in an abandoned town, the people seemed completely unaware of Sam and Dean's interruption. Upon closer inspection, Sam realised they didn't look very human at all.

The guests all seemed to be dying. Not in the way the sat, for they sat with backs straight and mouths smiling, but as Sam moved around the hall nearer the front, he realised they were... decomposing?

Some showed ribs, others their skulls or their phalanges. A girl at the very front sat dressed in a beautiful, pale violet dress - her lips a rosy red, and her eye sockets an empty black, and despite this she faced the front as if she could actually _see_.

The heavy music stopped then, the last few notes lingering in the air like the heavy scent of electricity when a storm was due. Sam turned to see the pianist, a complete skeleton dressed in the colours of a dragonfly, a bluebird falling silent just as the notes died from inside the cage of his ribs. It had been singing along to the music, sitting just where the pianists heart ought to have been, had he been a living, breathing human.

The attention was now on the main couple, and now that Sam looked for longer than a passing glance he could tell that the woman was, in fact, a man. A veil covered the face, but the broader shoulders and flat chest pointed towards a distinctly male physique despite the slightly feminine waist and hips, or the long wave of pitch black hair that fell down the man's back.

The figure was dressed in all white, except for the black cobwebs that decorated his robes and covered his face in a delicate veil. His hands were gloved, and he raised them expectantly for the other man to take them.

The groom in question was dressed in an elegant black suit, his face narrow and sharp and his eyes black as the void. He seemed proud from the way he held himself, and radiated a cold sort of power that felt absolutely repulsive to Sam. This did not seem to affect the man in white or indeed any of the guests present, but then again Sam supposed they weren't exactly ordinary.

His eyes slid to Dean, who stood at the opposite end of the hall. His eyes were fixed on the veiled groom, who stood facing away from Sam. He waved slightly, but his older brother seemed lost in thought as he stared at the figure facing him. Sam made to move forward, worry growing in his chest, but was stopped by a man - a priest, by the way he was dressed - stepping forward.

"Dearly beloved," he intoned, his voice as deep and striking as the blood red roses that bloomed along his dark skin. "Today, we gather here to see two halves of a soul unite eternally."

Sam frowned at his words. They didn't really sound like the usual words in a wedding, in fact they seemed quite wrong. But even as he stood and watched, Sam felt increasingly like he didn't belong. He wanted to leave, but his brother seemed frozen, mesmerized by the man in white.

The priest was opening up a book in front of him now, and just as he made to set it down a stand made of thorns grew straight up and out of the altar to greet him. He carried on as if it was completely normal and expected, and reached to his shoulder to gently coax a rose to loosen.

It retracted as if it were a living animal, tentatively sliding into his hand and curling its stalk in towards itself as the priest carried it over to the hands joined between the couple to be married. He set it down there, and immediately the rose's thorned stalk reached to wrap around, drawing blood from both where it dug into white silk and soft skin.

Sam winced sympathetically, but the two seemed absolutely unfazed as they looked into each other's eyes lovingly. And though he could only see the taller man's face, Sam would bet that they both had the exact same looks of utter devotion on their faces.

The priest stepped back and regarded the book he'd set down before him. He opened his mouth, and out came a long string of what sounded much like Latin, though it was far too fast for Sam to even hope to translate. He tried to keep up, but instead was distracted by the soft glow that came from the couple, and the way the dripping blood stretched across the floor, spreading in complicated patterns that were completely foreign to Sam, but that he recognised as some sort of seal or ritualistic component.

It felt like the whole hall was holding its breath as the priest chanted, his voice becoming louder and more powerful until Sam was covering his ears in pain, his eyes watering as he wondered how the glass of the painted windows hadn't shattered yet from the sheer force of it, and he felt like he was going to black out.

Just as he reached the point where he felt like his head would literally pop, the priest fell silent. There was a long pause, and when Sam finally found it in himself he found that the three at the altar were just standing there, eyes closed. There were odd lights around them, and once Sam had blinked the blurriness out of his eyes he realised it was coming from the ground the couple stood on. The strange symbols that had painted the ground were now glowing with an eerie green light, but before long it burnt out and took the blood with it.

The priest then stepped up, a strangely toothy smile on his face. The couple didn't seem to notice as they stood, hands entwined with each other's and soft, devoted looks on their faces as they gazed at each other in open affection. Sam flushed, feeling like he was intruding on something incredibly intimate, but as soon as the thought passed his mind the priest laid a hand where the rose still rested, pinching into skin and drawing bright red droplets still.

It almost pulsed with life - almost as if it was draining the energy from its hosts, but neither of the two men seemed to be suffering any adverse affects as the priest finally coaxed it free again and rested it back on his shoulder as if it were a pet bird.

"You may kiss your bonded, my Lord," he spoke finally, and the man in the suit slowly raised the veil to reveal pale skin, deep red lips, and bright green eyes. The man then leaned down and kissed his newly married spouse as if the man was the very air he breathed.

This time, Sam couldn't help but look away awkwardly. Instead, his eyes landed on his brother, who still stared as if he was hopelessly bewitched, and did not respond when Sam once again waved at him. An uneasy thrill went through him like electricity, and Sam decided to fuck it.

Quickly and quietly as he could, he marched right across the room. Surprisingly, nobody reacted - it was almost as if they couldn't even see him. He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and upon reaching his brother laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Dean," he hissed, shaking the older man a little when he did not reply. "Dean!"

He shook harder, growing more and more panicked and unhappy as his brother just carried on staring like he'd completely lost his kind. Finally, absolutely pissed, he slapped the man straight across the face. It seemed to do the trick as Dean blinked heavily, turning his eyes to face him like it was a great effort.

"Wha?" he mumbled, almost as if he'd been asleep. Sam didn't reply, instead grabbing his arm and dragging him out without another word. This whole hunt had been a bad idea, and now that they _were_ here, Sam could only see that there was nothing recognisable going on here. He could not begin to guess at what those people had been _or_ how to kill them, and to be perfectly honest he didn't particularly want to try.

As he marched out, his brother in tow, he could not help glance back at the altar. To his surprise, he found that both of the newly married men were looking at him, an amused smile on the shorter one's face as he watched them leave. For a second, Sam felt what he was sure his brother must have felt - the urge to touch, to stare forevermore, for the man was absolutely and unearthly lovely, but then he saw the firm arm around the slim, shapely waist, and met dark eyes almost as if in reflex.

And these eyes were nothing like the shorter man's. No, they were pitch black and cold, like the very void of nonexistence, like everything that repulsed and frightened Sam, and the hunter was sure that the emotionless stare would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life

He turned and left, and did not look back again.


	19. Double-Cross

**Double-Cross**

Words: 2,768  
Pairing: Barty Crouch Jr/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: Angst, kidnapping, violence, major character death.

* * *

He woke up in a dark room - or rather, a dark cellar. It was cold, damp and smelt faintly of rotting leaves, and Harry sat tied to a chair in the middle of it. Immediately, his ears pricked as he tried to gather where he was without giving away his consciousness, but managed to find only that there was someone standing behind him before a voice spoke.

"You needn't feign unconsciousness."

He tensed involuntarily, immediately placing the voice. It had been years since they'd last met or even set eyes on each other, but Harry had never forgotten this man despite his numerous attempts to push him out of his memory.

He still dreamt of him at night. If he didn't know better, he'd guess this _was_ a dream, but unfortunately he _did_ know better.

He straightened, shaking his head a little to move the hair out of his eyes, and tried his bonds. Strong rope, tied in what he knew would be an expert knot tensed around his wrists and refused to loosen. He sighed.

"Barty."

"Hello Harry." The voice had a calm sort of tone - deep, but not too much. Enough to make it obvious he was a man, but comfortable. Friendly. And Harry had always heard it directed at him with just the barest undercurrent of warmth, a little affection seeping through as if it just could _not_ be hidden.

It was frigid now. He swallowed hard, looking over his shoulder. "Barty," he said again. "What am I doing here?"

"Don't play the fool Harry," the man laughed. His footsteps grew closer, slow and measured as the blond man rounded the chair to stand in front of him, his mouth set in a mocking sneer and his eyes angrier than Harry had ever seen them before. And Harry found he was not too proud to admit he was a little scared.

"You're supposed to be in prison," he said quietly, as if speaking too loudly would make the man snap. "What are you doing here?"

"You knew I was out, Harry, I asked you not to play the fool," Barty said, his voice bored. He stepped closer. "You _know_ why I'm here."

There was a pause, then Harry nodded.

"Good." Barty nodded. "Good."

"You're angry with me," Harry laughed. "Of course you are. You must _hate_ me-"

" _Hate_ you, Harry?" Barty scoffed. "No, Harry, no. Do you have _any_ idea what you subjected me to? What you _did_ to me? No wait," he continued before Harry could say anything, "of course you did. You're the one that ratted me out. You're the one who-" he choked up. Harry sat, staring at him silently as the man collected himself.

"I want to make you pay, Harry," he said softly. "But not quite here." With these words he walked around again, and Harry had barely enough time to register the snick of a knife before the ropes around his wrists went slack.

He moved his hands forward, rubbing at the red marks left behind, but before he could do anything else Barty had grabbed him by the collar, pulled him up and punched him across the face.

He gasped, his head cracking to the side as his cheek exploded in pain. He barely registered where Barty was dragging him, only realising they'd arrived where they were supposed to when Barty shoved him to the floor.

"Do you know this place?" the man asked, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room with feigned nonchalance. "You should, but I don't really know if you do, see. I have no idea if you even gave enough of a shit."

Harry pushed himself up until he was in some semblance of a sitting position. He looked around, but his eyes kept watering and making everything blurry. As he blinked fast to rid himself of them, Barty lost his patience and strode closer, leaning down and taking a hold of his hair.

He couldn't help but cry out as the man gripped the hair in one hand and pulled him up. He was dizzy from the punch earlier, and his lip tasted of copper, but he still managed to look Barty in the eyes as the man glared him down.

"You took the one thing I cared about," he growled, pulling a little harder on the handful he had a grasp of. "You were the only person I trusted, Harry, and you _turned_ on me!"

His voice rose until he was shouting by the end, and he tossed Harry away to crash into the wall in his anger. The younger man straightened slowly, trying to ignore the pain in his head and his chest and his heart. "I did," he said, his voice hoarse from screaming. "I _did_ , and you should know why-"

"They _killed_ my baby boy!" the man turned and shouted, his grey eyes so bright with rage that Harry had to close his eyes for a second to even dare go on. "You were the only person to even _know_ he existed. You _squealed_ , didn't you."

And his heart felt like it was going to rip a hole straight through his chest, but he nodded anyway. "I did," he repeated, and maybe he sounded like he was going to cry but Barty didn't care, not now.

"And because of _you_ , they-" he broke off, turning his face away as if to control himself and then shouted wordlessly, kicking Harry in the ribs hard enough to make him collapse again.

He didn't make a sound this time, but clutched at his chest as if to keep the pain contained. Slowly, he got back up, and Barty watched pitilessly he did.

"There's something you don't know," he said, and it wasn't even an attempt to gain forgiveness. It was too late now, Harry had been so cruel and how did this all go so wrong? He braced a hand against the wall, raised his head. "There's something else. That boy-"

"They jeered at me, Harry," Barty hissed, "tortured me and laughed at me about how I couldn't even protect _him_."

"I _know_ , I know." He closed his eyes, and they stung so oddly, almost as if he'd been staring at a bright light too long. As if he'd been awake for far too long, tired eyes and tired mind. "Barty, he sat right here when those pictures were taken, and then." He gasped, trying to regain his breath. "And then two hours later he was on a plane with nobody the wiser."

Barty froze, his eyes widening as he stared at Harry. Then, in a flurry of motion his hand was tangled in the front of Harry's shirt and the blond man had pushed him into the wall hard once, twice. "How do you know? You were gone by then, you'd done your job and left us." Abandoned us.

Harry shook his head. "No, Barty. I- I was the one holding the gun."

"He's alive?" The man's eyes flashed. "You- he's alive? You let me believe he was dead this whole time?"

"I had to do _something_ ," he whispered. "And I'm so sorry for everything they told you, for every night you spent mourning him, but I couldn't keep it a secret forever. They'd have found out about him eventually, and then where would we be? Where would _he_ be? So I took responsibility, I took those photos and passed him off as dead-"

"You're lying," Barty said, his voice strangely tight. He shook his head, closer by his eyes for a good long while. "You're lying. Why are you lying, Harry?"

Harry didn't reply, just stared at him wordlessly as the man shook his head again. " _Why_? I thought you loved me, you know? I-" he took a shuddering breath. "But you still play with me like this. I didn't realise you could _be_ this cruel."

Harry brought his hand up and covered the tense knuckles where Barty's fist still clutched at his collar. "I wouldn't," he whispered, and if he was crying now, who cared anymore? "I wouldn't. Not about this. They'd have done such things to him, Barty, and he was just a _boy_." He shook his head, trying to regain control of his emotions. "Of course I couldn't let them touch him!" he shouted suddenly. "Of course I couldn't let them get their _filthy_ hands on him! He _trusts_ me, he _loves_ me-"

Barty nodded, swallowed by hard, then suddenly focused on Harry. "You know where he is."

Harry froze, his lips parting in surprise as he stared at Barty. "Y-yes, I do."

"Then take me to him. I want to see him."

He supposed he should have expected that, but even as Barty advanced on him he shook his head. "No," he replied, his tone brooking no argument. "I can't do that."

"Why the fuck not?" Barty growled out, his fingers tightening into fists. "He's _my_ kid, I want-"

"I can't," Harry repeated coldly. "I can't take that risk."

The man's expression changed immediately. "I wouldn't let anyone _hurt_ him, Harry-" he started, and sounded almost like he was begging, but still Harry stubbornly shook his head.

"And who's going to protect him from you?" he asked quietly. "From your influence?"

Silence, then, "what?" Barty said quietly.

"Look at you, Barty," Harry replied as the man's fist loosened and let him down. "The first thing you did after escaping prison was to find me, to murder people to get to me. You let everyone know you were back and just as prepared to commit your crimes as before and-" he took a breath, slowing himself down. "I remember what you wanted with him too, how you wanted him to follow in your footsteps, but that's not okay."

"You mean to say, you're telling me you know better?" Barty asked, his tone dangerously soft. Harry shivered, but whilst he admitted to his fear, he also knew that he'd take it all to keep that boy safe.

"He's happy, well-adjusted. He's growing up big and strong and healthy, he has friends and interests and is doing great in school and Barty, you'll destroy everything he's built. You'll force him to be someone he's not and I can't help you do it."

He laughed self-depreciatingly, shaking his head. "Not even if you would kill me for it."

Barty was silent a while, staring at Harry with a blank, expressionless face. His eyes seemed almost like steel, grey and strong and absolutely unwilling to tell Harry anything. Then the man breathed in and nodded.

"I see," he murmured, almost like a disappointed teacher with his student. He looked away, to the side, almost as if lost in thought. "Even if I changed?" he said softly, and Harry knew then that he'd looked away to maintain some semblance of pride.

There was nothing more insulting to Barty Crouch Jr. than for him to admit a weakness.

Harry bit his lip, and felt the tug in chest. He wanted to, so badly - a part of him had even dared fantasise, in the darkest hours, of the three of them happy and together. 'A _real_ family,' he scoffed internally, and it really was a joke because what did Harry know of family? What did he know of parenting or caring for children, of building homes?

But he found himself helpless to admit that he'd only ever been happy with the two of them - his lover and his son, in the small hours of the afternoon and evening when they could pretend nothing was amiss.

When Harry could pretend that Barty wasn't a high profile criminal, and that he wasn't an undercover cop sleeping with the enemy.

And so, even when it made him want to stab himself, he shook his head softly. "You won't change, Barty," he whispered. "You didn't when your father put you in prison, or when your dying mother begged you to stop. You didn't when I asked you to for your son or when your father died for you, so why now?

"Sure, you love your son, Barty, and I know that. Believe me I _know_. But more than that, you don't see that you're wrong, that what you're doing is _wrong_ -"

"And you're the perfect candidate to judge that?" he interrupted, his voice so filled with quiet anger that Harry couldn't help but flinch.

He shrugged instead, smiling bitterly. "Like I said, Barty, you can kill me if you want."

The man stared at him, his eyes wide and his mouth open as he looked at Harry incredulously. " _Why_ , Harry?" he asked as if he were truly at a loss. He stepped closer and framed Harry's face with his hands, pressing gently against him. Slowly he pressed a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth, so achingly sweet that Harry couldn't help but imagine a time when they'd honestly been in love with each other, and when Harry had lied to himself enough to convince himself that he really was just a student who'd fallen in love with another man.

"Don't you _want_ to be happy? Don't you want us to be together, like we used to be?" And indeed Harry did, so, _so_ badly. Despite everything Barty had done, all the people he'd robbed and slaughtered mercilessly, he still loved him endlessly. And he wondered if that didn't make him just as bad himself, that he could stand to love such a man. He wondered if it didn't make him just as guilty that his heart wanted nothing more that to give in, and that he was _actually considering it_ -

But no. He thought about all the people he'd saved, all the children with parents who'd survived Barty's hit list, and the sunny smile of a boy who was his son in all but blood, who looked exactly like his father in all but the beautiful, loving brown of his eyes, and he imagined what a life with a crime Lord father would do to him. He imagined how that happy smile would be locked away, how those expressive eyes would be shuttered until all that remained was hatred and resentment and-

"No." His eyes were shut tight against the images but they kept coming, kept hurting, and he was crying thick, heavy tears but what did he care? Barty had seen it all anyway, could read his fear and desperation and sorrow and _love_ like a book anyway, so what sense did it make to try and hide it?

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, "because I would love nothing more than to wake up with you and love both you and him with every bone in my body for the rest of my life but I can't. I'm sorry."

He didn't open his eyes as the silence stretched and his words faded, or even as slow footsteps lead away from him and then back with meaningful purpose. He just remained there, leaning against the cold cement wall as if he were stuck there, unable to move.

Barty came to stand in front of him again, and there was a beat before Harry felt pain blooming up from his stomach, making him bend over the fist in his stomach. His eyes opened of their own accord, and when he saw the cold look if Barty's face sudden fear engulfed him, and he understood.

He was going to die here.

"Won't you fight back, Harry?" Barty said, but even the jeering time he usually reserved for his more personal victims was absent, his voice flat even as he tried to humiliate Harry. "Are you so helplessly _weak_ that you're just going to _take it_?"

But Harry didn't say another word, even as his skin bloomed red and purple and black, or when his vision became red with his own blood and blocked the sight of Barty's terrifyingly twisted face.

Terrifying not because it was fearsome, but because of the pain etched into every line of it. And Harry hated himself then, because he'd done that.

Why couldn't he simply have lied to himself?

And when Barty took out a gun, looking down at him as if it was his own life he was ending, Harry smiled through the cuts on his face and whispered, "forgive me," before everything ended.

And Barty stayed there and cried over him for hours, sat there until he became cold to the touch, and buried his stiff body himself. But Harry didn't know that, because Harry was gone.

And he wasn't ever coming back.


	20. Coquettish

**Coquettish**

Words: 1,794  
Pairing: Rodolphus Lestrange/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: Violence, but it's pretty mild. Harassment.

* * *

"Harry, love, get in the car," Rodolphus called, driving alongside him as he walked down the road. He was drunk, Harry knew, but not nearly as much as he pretended to be as he feigned a stumble. He looked over his shoulder at his lover, who'd slowed down and was crawling along at his pace, and fluttered his eyelashes teasingly.

"How inappropriate," he laughed. "You must be over twenty years older than me, stranger. I'm not getting into a car with you."

Rodolphus sighed, but then smirked. "I could make it worth your while, darling," he promised, his voice suddenly low and husky and so sexy Harry couldn't help but shiver.

He smiled back, looking at Rodolphus from beneath his eyelashes. The man was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. He'd aged like fine wine, his skin scarred and tanned and yet his hands knew exactly how to make Harry's body sing, how to make him cry from the sheer pleasure of his sex. He looked at those dark eyes, that pouty mouth and full lips, the casual way he leaned against the back of his seat in his uncaring grace and for a minute he couldn't breathe. Rodolphus had one hand braced on the steering wheel as he faced him, and Harry could see the tension in his forearm where the sleeve had been pulled up. The strength of it was captivating, and just looking at him now Harry wanted nothing more than for the man to seize him and hold him in those arms.

But oh, not yet.

"Are you flirting with me?" he asked, tilting his head and widening his eyes as if he was truly shocked. Then, leaning closer, he made his voice all sultry and whispered, "would you really take advantage of me?"

"Oh, but look at you," Rodolphus breathed, running hungry, bold eyes up and down Harry's form. "Walking around all made up and dressed like a tart at this time of night, and all by yourself too. Why, anyone would imagine that you _want_ to be taken advantage of."

Harry's cheeks reddened, and his lips parted slightly in shock. "And here I thought you were a gentleman," he gasped, and a part of him wanted to laugh even saying such an absurd thing, but he didn't.

"Oh honey, looking like that? You'd make any gentleman look twice. Besides," and he leant out of his window at this, resting a lazy arm out, "whoever said I was a gentleman?"

And he so wanted to give in, to climb into the backseat and let Rodolphus fuck him there with just his fly undone and his cock pulled out, if he wanted. To sit on his lap as he drove, or just let him sit back lazily and watch Harry move on top of him.

But _no_. Not yet.

"I'm not supposed to get into cars with strangers," he whispered making his eyes all wide, and backed away. Rodolphus called after him again, but he turned and didn't look backwards as he took off down a darkened alleyway with no inhibition.

He walked a while then, getting himself thoroughly lost. Rodolphus would be looking for him, but that just made it better. And so he wandered down the streets in the dark, clearly drunk and dressed like a hooker. Of _course_ he was going to get hit on.

They were big men, muscular and hairy with nasty, scowling faces and horrible breath, and when Harry didn't react to being catcalled, they started following him. He sped up, his breath coming in shorter and shorter pants, but they kept up effortlessly, still laughing with each other as if they were just walking about. He ran.

It didn't matter. Before he knew it, one of them appeared before him to cut him off, and he was surrounded by them as they closed in. He huddled into himself as he backed away until he hit the wall, and found himself in a ring of four men.

"Hey," one of them said, leaning closer. "S'not very nice to ignore us like that." He was huge - bulging muscles inked with symbols that Harry didn't care for, but his strength was nothing like Rodolphus'. It was ugly, useless for everything except violence and fear, and Harry found himself wanting the safe embrace of his older lover.

"Go away," he said, wrapping his arms harder around his waist. "Leave me alone."

"Aaaaw, we just wanna play, pretty boy," another man said, grinning. His teeth were stained yellow, and Harry had to contain a shudder at the very thought of that mouth anywhere close to him. He shook his head instead, looking at the men with wide, afraid green eyes from under his hair.

"Please just leave me be," he pleaded, and the first man laughed again.

"You don't really want that," he snickered, looking him up and down. "Nah, look at you. You're practically asking for it." And he reached forward to wrap meaty fingers around Harry's wrist.

Just as he did, Harry heard the sound of an engine down the road. The man didn't seem to care as he pulled the boy closer by his arm, but Harry's entire being became focused on the sound as the car sped down the street and came to a stop just behind his assailants.

He gasped, his eyes wide, as the man took advantage of his inattention to grab his chin, but he had no chance to do more than that before two of the man's companions crumpled like marionettes with the strings cut, and the third got a punch to the face that took him down effortlessly.

Harry watched with wide eyes and badly hidden lust as his saviour flexed his biceps involuntarily, making sure the opposition was going to stay down before turning to the one who had a hold of him.

"Who're you?" the brute asked, his hold on Harry tightening, and the boy let out a gasp at the pain.

Rodolphus' eyes flashed, and suddenly he had a hold on the very hand that held Harry's arm. His grip tightened as the younger man watched, fingers whitening until the man was gasping in pain and letting go, begging for Rodolphus to stop.

Harry immediately took his wrist in his other hand, rubbing at the sore skin as he watched his lover beat the man into unconsciousness like it was no big deal. And it was arousing - he couldn't deny that. His lover was tall and dark and strong, a typically big man, but he was also incredibly handsome in both his face and in his relaxed confidence, his casual grace. And now, when he took revenge on the one man who dared touch him, who dared hurt him in the slightest, he looked so beautiful that Harry just wanted to fall to his knees and love him. And indeed, his knees felt so weak with desire that he would very well have fallen to his knees, had Rodolphus not swept him up into his arms just then.

He gasped, both in surprise and at the sudden contact, and couldn't help the tight clench of his fingers on Rodolphus' back, nor the way his mouth went straight to the man's neck to kiss there like he was dying, and Rodolphus the air he needed. He craved this feeling, this sensation of absolute safety and security. Rodolphus would get to him every time, he knew, which was the only reason he could go out like this without fear. He had no control over what happened, but his lover did. His lover could down four men bigger than him and walk away with Harry wrapped up in his arms like he _belonged_ there and the thought of it just set Harry alight with passion.

"I thought you didn't get into cars with strangers," Rodolphus laughed, and Harry shivered and the low, dark promise in that tone.

"Oh, but you deserve a reward, don't you?" he pureed, making his eyes all wide and innocent. "I just want to thank you, after all. You saved me!"

"And how are you going to thank me, pretty boy?" Rodolphus was smirking playfully, but his eyes were deliciously dark with leftover anger and jealousy and lust, the most intoxication mixture, and Harry felt so close to just _breaking_ , so ready to fall into the backseat of Rodolphus' car and open his legs wide, let the man did anything he wanted to, let him take _advantage_ of Harry.

He felt like he was crazy for Rodolphus, lost in a dizzying swirl of intense lust and love - or no, _obsession_ would be closer. Harry didn't just love Rodolphus, he _adored_ him, gave all he had to this man.

He smiled prettily, _knowing_ he looked pretty and loving it, and whispered "however you want," like he was shy. Like he was pure and untouched, like he'd never felt the weight of another man press him down into a soft bed, like he'd never felt those rough, broad hands on his back and his thighs and the curve of his arse.

His lashes were lowered, and as he looked up through them he put the tip on his finger in his mouth and licked it, just enough to see Rodolphus' breathing speed up. "After all," he added, "you're such a _kind_ man. You wouldn't _really_ take advantage of me, would you?" And Rodolphus just laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Of course not, sweetheart," he told him, grinning so sharply that Harry wondered if he wasn't the devil himself, with his smile so full of dark temptation and desire and _fantasy_ , full with promise, and only for _him_.

His lover slid his hands, so large and strong and rough, up his thighs until they held his hips, and pulled him sharply into himself. He turned until Harry was pressed against his chest and the cold metal of the car, until their hips were pushed tightly into one another so intimately that Harry could feel the heavy shape of his erection in the space between his legs.

He moaned, surprised at the sudden pleasure, and relaxed into his lover immediately. His mouth was open, pink lips in an o of surprise as Rodolphus leant down until their lips were just inches from touching. But he didn't kiss Harry, no matter how obviously the boy wanted it. "Get into my car," he ordered instead. "But," he added, whispering, "remember this. If you get in there, you _let_ me take advantage of you."

Without another word, he let go of Harry and walked purposefully towards the other side of the car.

Harry didn't pause, didn't think twice. Heavy with desire and anticipation, he opened the door, and slid inside.


	21. Muse

**Muse**

Words: 989  
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: None

* * *

He draws Harry constantly. There are times when he draws his lover unaware, sleeping or cooking or gardening and so lost in his thoughts he does not realise Dean is there again, sketchpad in hand as he brushes charcoal against paper.

Other times, Harry poses. Sometimes he sits there on a chair, smiling straight at him as if this were an official looking portrait, but more times than not it is when he's tired an naked, fucked out and enjoying his afterglow, or when he's seducing Dean onto his bed and the man just wants to capture him _just like that_ before he takes what is offered and loves him until he's lost in it.

It is a little strange, perhaps, for him to be so smitten with one subject, to have sketchbooks upon sketchbook, sheets of random paper and many a painting depicting the same person in so many different states, especially since its _him_.

Dean has always had a short attention span when it comes to these things. He draws many things, explores with media and style and subject constantly, and always moves on before long. But Harry is... _interesting_.

It is not that he's beautiful, though he undoubtedly is. But then again, so are storms and oceans and little cottages and happy children. So is a bird of prey in its element, a falcon diving or a rabbit on a meadow. He doesn't draw Harry again and again because he's _beautiful_. He draws him because Harry Potter is infinitely fascinating to him, a masterpiece he cannot capture no matter what media or art style he uses, whether he paints him on big walls or doodles him on small corners of his page, whether its sleeping or eating or mad or laughing.

And it makes him angry, because he tries so _hard_. He works for hours, wrist sore and eyes even more so, fingers aching from holding a piece of charcoal or pastel or a paintbrush, but it doesn't _matter_ because he can never get it _right_.

And Harry doesn't get it. He smiles and kisses Dean deep and tells him he's flattered, that Dean got it so right, "it looks exactly like me" or "do I really look that good to you?" and it frustrates him because they're _not_ good enough. They're never _perfect_. He never looks at paintings of Harry tall and beautiful in pressed robes and lose his breath like he does when he sees Harry lounging around in his sweatpants and Dean's t-shirt.

But then, late at night long after Harry has given up on convincing him to come to bed, he walks into the dark room and lights a candle and sits by the bed in an old chair, and his fingers fly across the thick, creamy paper like they're possessed, pressing dark lines and faint shadows into the sheet and in that moment, he feels like he's _so close_. Like all he has to do is add a line, brush his fingers just right across the bridge of Harry's nose and the lines will breathe as they come to life, as they bloom into perfection and end his suffering-

It never happens, and those are the nights Dean stays awake for hours and hours just drawing. But they're also the nights when he feels like he can breathe again, and like it's okay if he never paints Harry in the colours he deserves. Because he knows that, once he does, he'll lose interest and move on, and he never wants to lose interest in Harry.

Perhaps, he wonders, _this_ is what love means. He has always cared easily, making friends that stick for years in the span of an afternoon, but even all that seems almost _shallow_ compared this. So perhaps this is indeed love, but Dean thinks it is closer to obsession, to letting someone define the deepest parts of him and rearrange the order of his life, and it is terrifying, because what if it is one-sided? What if Harry grows tired, leaves him, what would he do then? Because Dean knows, the way people know their heart is beating, that he can't live without Harry. Not anymore. You can't possibly build your entire being around one person, and somehow expect it to remain steady when it's core is gone.

And it scares him seeing as, where Dean cares easily, Harry _loves_ like he breathes, like he has an eternity of space in his heart to just hand out. He has loved and lost so many times that Dean is sometimes afraid he'll just be another in a long line of those gone past. But then he sees his lover asleep on the couch waiting for him, and he knows that's unfair because Harry loves just as deeply, just as madly as Dean does.

It's just not in the same way. Harry doesn't love like him because he's _not_ him, but when he wakes from nightmares and Dean's is the first name he calls out, or when his lips automatically turn up when his eyes land on Dean - that tells him all he should need to know.

And so, when he's feeling in a particularly sweet mood, he'll set aside his sketchbooks and just _appreciate_ Harry. He'll fuck him, love him until Harry lays on the bed covered in a thin layer of glistening sweat and panting as his eyes close and his heart calms. Harry is most sensitive then, and every brush will send him sighing and moaning in relaxed afterglow as Dean paints shadows along his curves and make a flowers bloom on his skin.

He doesn't feel frustrated at all then, just pleased that he has this, is living this, can touch and kiss and _adore_ however he desires. He calms then, and though these moments are brief, it is at those times that he knows with a certainty that his love for Harry will last forever.


	22. Bitter

**Bitter**

Words: 3,623  
Crossover: Twilight  
Pairing: Aro/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: None, just angst and angry feelings.

* * *

He is in the library when Felix finds him. The room is huge, more akin to a cathedral's main chamber than a library, except that every wall is covered in thousands and thousands of books. There are novels here from when novels first started to be written, original copies ancient tombs and several books that there's only rumour of outside the walls of Volterra. Harry knows, because he's been through most of them, at first desperate to find answers in some obscure tome, and then just to pass the days without losing his mind.

The vampire sidles up to the shelf atop which he is seated, looking very much like the cat who caught the canary, and waits smugly for Harry to acknowledge him. The younger immortal tries to ignore him, frowning as he attempts in vain to keep his concentration on the words before him, but they prove ultimately drab in comparison to the mystery Felix presents.

So, with a huff, he shuts the cover with more force - especially for such an old book - than necessary and chances a glare down, meeting the vampire's bright red gaze.

Freshly fed, then.

"What?" he snaps, irritated. "Was there something needed?"

"Needed?" Felix laughs, light and airy as if Harry has told a mildly amusing joke, and waves his hand at the irate green eyes staring back down at him. "No dear, but your attitude forces me to ask how it is I've offended you?" he grins, flashing perfect, pointed white teeth in a show of nonchalance, but Harry senses that he's upset the older vampire.

"I'm sorry," he says, then sighs and puts the books down next to him before jumping down to stand next to Felix. Now that they stand on even ground, the difference between their heights is only too obvious, but Harry had spent near enough his entire life as the shortest among his peers, so it doesn't really faze him anymore.

Felix shrugs. "I just thought you'd want to know," he says, then pauses. Harry frowns.

"Know what?" he is forced to ask. Felix grins again, slinging a conspiratorial arm around his small shoulders.

"Aro has visitors," he whispers in his ear. Harry shrugs off the arm, crossing his own in irritation. His face immediately morphs into a sneer at the sound of _his_ name.

"So?" he asks dismissively. "He's always entertaining some guest or another, what makes you think I care now, when I have never cared before?"

"Well, for one, this is a party including a human girl."

Harry sighs hard, raising an eyebrow at Felix as if to tell him to get on with it. "Again, not uncommon."

"Not even if she's a vampire's lover?"

The vampire's tone is very much sly, and loathe though he is to admit it, Harry's interest is peaked. "Surely..." he starts, trailing off. "Surely you can't mean-"

"Oh but I do, dear. A human girl and her vampire lover, here in the middle of Volterra whilst the three lords of the Volturi hold court." He pauses, and then admits, "that isn't even the best part."

"Oh?" Harry tries to keep his voice from wavering, but he doesn't think that he manages to keep it steady to the fine ears of vampire. If Felix notices, however, he does not mention it.

"The vampire in question," he murmurs, "is _the telepath_."

Harry's breath stutters on the way into his lungs, and his eyes widen. "Oh," he says. That was significant. That was _really_ significant. Aro had wanted the Cullen vampires for his little collection for longer than Harry had been alive, he'd never pass up the chance to play with them now. "Oh dear," he whispers, then looks at Felix, who nods.

"Exactly," he replies, smiling much too widely, and Harry feels a pang of pity for the pair he has never even met. Stupid as they are to have come here in the first place, Harry would never wish Aro and his devices on anyone, though he would be the first to admit his clear bias.

Without another word, Harry strides out of the room and down to the large chamber Aro fancies as his throne room. He doesn't run, but nevertheless he may as well have for his incredible speed. Upon entering the room, he finds the three vampire lords on their appointed thrones, and three unfamiliar faces. One he immediately recognises as human from the flushed skin and frightened brown eyes, and he imagines that the one standing by her side is her foolish lover. Behind them stands another female who, from the amber of her eyes, he supposes to be another Cullen - though he does not know enough about them to hazard a guess as to which one.

Aro has a smooth, friendly smile on his face when Harry first enters, fooling absolutely nobody but, perhaps, the human girl who would be unfamiliar with him and his ways, but it falls as soon as the old vampire sets eyes on him.

"Harry," he says, his surprise more obvious than he should have let it be. Harry doesn't reply or even look over, acting as if Aro is not even there. Marcus frowns, Harry knows this even without looking, but all eyes in the room fall upon the girl at the sound of her loud gasp.

"Bella," the telepath murmurs chidingly, but both his and his sister's eyes are intent upon Harry, and he knows exactly why. Vampires do not have green eyes and a beating heart, nor do they breathe like their living counterparts. And yet, Harry's unnaturally pale complexion, speed and stillness does not allow him to fall into the category of human either. He is something distinctly _other_ \- something he is loathe to be, and still resents Aro for turning him into after so many years.

Speaking of the devil, the vampire coughs politely, and eyes swing back to him almost as if their gazes had been pulled. "Ah, yes," he says smoothly. "This is Harry, my... dearest."

He waits expectantly, but Harry merely sneers and turns away. "Don't mind me," he says dismissively, refusing to make eye contact with the one who would call him beloved.

There is a brief, cold silence, and then Aro laughs benignly. "Yes," he says, smiling once again at Bella and her beau. "Don't mind him. He'll not have anything to say to _you_." The emphasis on the last word is subtle, but nevertheless understood. To the three foreigners, it is an insult, but to Harry? It is a warning, and despite wanting nothing more than to irritate the vampire, Harry desists, and heeds it.

Because Aro knows how to _hurt_ Harry, and he would rather avoid it if he could. And he's not thinking about Jane either, who's gift would make the strongest men tremble, though it still fails on him. No, Aro would never cause him pain in that sense, he fancies himself too noble, and knows how to hurt him through his words, how to strike right at the heart regardless - he has seen all there is to see in his mind, after all. And he truly hates to do it, Harry knows that too, but if he's been angered enough, well...

He turns away, and closes his mouth in a firm scowl.

The proceedings go quickly. Harry knows what to expect before the words even leave Aro's mouth, but he is surprised at the devastation on the male's - Edward's - face. And yet, when he thinks on it some more, why not? After all, Harry had never wanted to be turned, had never asked for the bite that had been bestowed upon him despite it all, so is it so surprising that a vampire - one who refuses human blood, even - would be against turning his lover? Harry had thought only of the fate of living eternity without the one you love, but he wouldn't be surprised to find that Edward holds some sort of hatred for his own kind.

It doesn't matter in any case - it has been settled. The Cullens will do as Aro asks or risk losing their lives and their hard-won peace, and Harry knows well enough now that Aro does not make idle threats.

He stands and watches, expressionless, as they leave. There are few lingering looks, but the two vampires do spare him a curious glance each. He supposes he cannot blame them for their curiosity, but that doesn't not mean he can't hate Aro for turning him into the circus freak he apparently now is. He turns, silent and mostly unseen for the shadows that cloak him, but Aro already has his eyes on Harry, and calls him closer before he can leave, or get far enough to at the very least pretend deafness.

He debates for a moment to run any way - what would the vampire do, after all? Harry walked away from him all the time, and the vampire seldom did more than scold him. But there is an edge to his voice that, try as he might to deny it, worries Harry, and so he stops where he is.

Aro gets up from his seat and moves a few steps towards where he stands, utterly still. "Walk with me," he says in a low voice, as if the rest of his host could not hear regardless. Harry does not answer, but nods and allows himself to take the proffered arm.  
They begin a relatively swift stride that leads them out of the vast, ancient castle and into the lush gardens that surround the property, where Aro then slows down.

"Harry," he says, his voice almost gentle, and Harry's muscles tighten almost instantly at the sound of it. He hears Aro sigh, but the vampire carries on regardless.

"Beloved," he says, "I would have you tell me why you came to visit me today, at exactly that time."

It is not a question, in the regard that Aro knows exactly why Harry was there. That is not what he is asking. After a while, Harry tells him anyway. "I heard rumours," he says softly. "I was curious." He pauses a second, and then, "is there some reason I _shouldn't_ have been there?"

Aro is silent, and Harry can feel his deep, crimson gaze fixed so heavily upon his face, but he doesn't look away from the intricately carved fountain near which they stand.

"No," he says eventually. "No reason." He turns so that he faces Harry, and raises the hand that is free of his grip to the younger vampire's face. Before he touches even a hair, Harry let's go of him and jerks away, green eyes wide with anger and anxiety.

"I've told you not to touch!" he exclaims, raising a hand to his cheek as if Aro had slapped him, and not merely failed to brush his fingers along his cheek.

"I am able to control myself," the elder replies coldly, advancing a step.

Harry laughs bitterly as he backs away even further. "You are," he says, his tone accusing. "But that does not mean you _will_. You never have before."

The not-so-subtle jab brings Aro up short, and immediately his face morphs into one of sadness. "Harry," he whispers. " _Amore mio_ , how long will you punish me like this?"

Harry shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "For as long as you've cursed me," he answers, tone flat. "Which is to say, forever."

"This was never meant to be a punishment-" Aro starts, but Harry turns on him, eyes narrowed and suspiciously shiny.

"It was against my _will_ , Aro. I never agreed to this, you forced it on me and _now_ look. I'm yet again a freak of nature-"

He breaks off when Aro straightens his back at those words, bringing himself up to his full height until he is glaring down at Harry with blood red eyes that remind Harry, for just one split-second, of Voldemort. He blinks, and still Aro stares down at him. "You are a _gift_ , Harry!" he exclaims angrily. "Look at you! There is nothing on this earth, or even the entirety of this universe that is anything like you, don't you understand? You are _precious_. Why," he continues, his eyes softening as he stared at Harry. "Look at your _eyes_. They are so beautiful, so perfect that I think not even Mother Nature wanted to destroy them, and how could she? They are jewels in their own right."

"Perhaps," Harry replies with a sardonic laugh, "I should just gouge them out myself then. Do you think if I did, that Mother Nature would finally just let me be?"

Aro twitches then sighs, reaching out and yet still not touching. "You don't mean that," he murmurs gently.

Harry laughs again, harsher. "Don't I?" he challenges, and yet he knows he doesn't. Aro is right, of course he is.

The older vampire doesn't answer, but draws ever nearer, arms out as if he would embrace Harry. " _Caro_ ," he whispers, voice low. "Please, this has surely gone on for long enough?"

Harry's heart stutters at the utter desperation in that tone, and he stills, staring wide-eyed at the other vampire. He has never seen Aro like this, has never seen him so open and _raw_ , and despite his best attempts to feign indifference he fails, ever a slave to the quickening of his heart. And yet...

And yet, he has never been so pathetic as that either. He turns his gaze away, and Aro sighs harshly, pushing his hands into his hair in an oddly human gesture of frustration. It is surprising, because Harry has imagined that the vampire has trained all these little things out of himself by now, over his millennia of life, but he has no mind to dwell on it when Aro turns to him again.

"What would you have me do, Harry?" he asks, a growl in his voice. Harry smiles sadly.

"Why, Aro, what would anyone be expected to do for wronging someone?"

Aro stills, and a slow, angry smile spreads over his face. "Of course," he murmurs, "of course. I-" he breaks off, and then suddenly kneels.

When he attempts to touch Harry's skin this time, the younger vampire lets him, and Aro takes his hands in his own. He is hesitant to do so, remembering a time when Aro's touch had been as good as permission for his magic, which protected him from most other abilities, to have open access to every memory he holds. When Aro had not told him what he could do, and read every secret Harry had ever kept like it was his _right_.

But he doesn't feel the vague sensation of sucking at his brain this time, and he knows Aro is holding back purposefully. Perhaps his words have cut deeper than he has imagined if this vampire, who famously only cares for himself, curbs his curiosity and need for knowledge for Harry's sake.

Aro looks him right in the eyes and he seems a like he's at a bit of a loss, but even so he drops a soft kiss on Harry's small hands and says "I am so, so sorry."

Harry doesn't know what to do for a while, shocked as he is. He knows what he has said and done has fully implied that this - an apology - was what he wanted, but even so he has never dared imagine-

Because, before all else, Aro is _proud_. Proud, and not arrogant, for he has every reason to bask in his achievements and power over others. He has _worked_ for it, earned it, and yet here he is - kneeling before Harry and asking his forgiveness, _admitting_ he's done wrong and-

And Harry feels so many things, he thinks he could explode with it all. He feels smug, a little, but more than that he feels _stupid_ for having held on to this for so long. For having worn Aro down to a man on his knees. It is testament, he thinks, to not only his regret but also his love that he is willing to lower himself before Harry. But a part of him knows that he could not have felt secure in this, had the vampire not truly apologised for what he has done to Harry, and now that they're here he feels, most strongly of all, relief.

He curls his fingers around the hands that hold his and pulls faintly on them, prompting Aro to rise once again. He looks as beautiful and strong as ever, his hair combed neatly down his back and his head just as high, but the glimmer of hope in his eyes tell Harry all he wants to know.

"I forgive you," he whispers, and now that he lets himself he admits that Aro's eyes are nothing like Voldemort's, if only because of the way they soften and darken to a delicious shade when they rest upon his form.

"My dearest," Aro says, but it is so soft that Harry reads his lips more than he hears the words. Even so he feels like he wants to cry, and yet he is also strangely happy. Because while he has resented Aro for turning him despite his refusal, for reading him without permission, the reason it hurt so much was that he'd trusted the vampire with himself in the most intimate way he could, and Aro had just continued on as he would without a care that his actions would break that trust.

The reason he has never been able to leave was that, despite his anger and hurt and resentment, Harry had _loved_ Aro, and believed truly that Aro did so in turn, only to be presented with the proof of his folly by fire through his veins and secret words on bloody lips. And the worst thing? The most difficult thing by far had been to admit to himself that he _still_ loved him.

Aro slips a hand around his waist, still grasping one of Harry's hands with the other as soft music begins to play indoors. It is time for a feeding, and yet Aro has never seemed more uninterested in blood. Instead he begins to sway, resting his head against Harry's, and whispers, "dance with me, _cuore mio_. It has been too long."

Harry hums, a smile stretching across his face before he can stop it, and he closes his eyes in contentment as he too begins to sway along. "But Aro," he replies teasingly, feeling for the first time in a long time like he is young again, happy as he was the first time in the arms of love. "As sweet as that sounds, your heart doesn't beat."

Aro laughs, the sound deliciously dark and honeyed and low. "Ah, dearest," he says. "My heart does indeed not beat, but despite that it feels as strongly as any mortal's, perhaps even stronger. And I can promise you," he adds, twirling Harry around and then back effortlessly, "that my love for you will endure like nothing else."

"Such sweet words," Harry laughs. "I must wonder how many innocent maidens and young men you've seduced with these very words, whether for lust of their blood or their flesh."

"I cannot deny that," Aro says, and then suddenly pulls Harry in close until they are chest to chest. "But how could my eyes possibly stray from one such as you?"

And loathe though he is to admit it, Harry cannot help but feel pleased at the praise. It shows, he knows, because unlike a vampire his heart still beats, and his blood flushes the skin of his cheeks regardless of his wishes. Aro leans down slowly, eyes intent on Harry's lips, and for a minute Harry lets him draw nearer and nearer, until, just before they touch, he spins outward again.

"You play with me!" Aro exclaims, but he too is laughing as he picks Harry up and swings him around, his arms and hands strong and safe around the younger immortal.

"Aro!" Harry cries, and though he does not know it his eyes are sparkling like they haven't since he was but a child, and his lips are spread wide in a happy smile. In a second, Aro's face changes from joyful to wanting, and his pulls Harry in so fast that the wizard can only blink before they are kissing, lips moving against each other and bodies moulded tightly together. Aro wraps both of his arms around Harry's waist, his hands on Harry's back, and Harry in turn has his hands buried in the long black locks of his hair, clutching tightly as he pulls Aro closer into himself.

They kiss until Harry becomes dizzy with the lack of oxygen, and even then Aro needs only to take a glance at swollen wet lips before he once again swoops down and takes his lover's mouth. Harry's lips part for him, and he tastes his beloved deeply and passionately as he hasn't done in years, the desire heating his blood at the absolutely glorious sensation of the lithe body so tight against his.

"Harry," he murmurs when they finally part, his voice gruff. The wizard in question still has his eyes closed, a soft smile on red lips, but he does not answer. Instead, he lays his head down onto Aro's chest, and whispers into the cloth there, "take me to bed, Aro."

And Aro, unwilling to deny such a sweet request, picks him up off his feet and takes him to the chambers highest up, where he knows they will not be disturbed, nor heard.

* * *

 _Amore mio_ \- My love

 _Caro_ \- Dear

 _Cuore mio_ \- My heart


	23. Liaison

**Liaison**

Words: 1,691  
Pairing: Rabastan Lestrange/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: Underage/chan (non-explicit).

* * *

The first time, Harry had been painfully young - a child in the hands of a man. He hadn't known who the man was, but it was clear to him that it wasn't true the other way around, because it took one look and the man's eyes widened in instant recognition, taking in the sight of black hair that hadn't quite covered the scar on his forehead. It should have mattered, should have changed his und and it would have, had the stranger not seemed utterly unconcerned a minute later.

He'd been fourteen when they first met, Harry running from a house that wasn't a home and panicking over what to do, where to go, when he'd run into a tall, dark-haired man who'd steadied him and then recognised him. That's how Harry knew he was a wizard too, and though he wondered what another wizard was doing in a place as dull as Little Winging, what really grabbed his attention was the way the man held onto his arms - hands large and strong - and the way that observation made him feel warm low in his stomach.

The man took him home with him, told Harry to call him Bas, and showed him exactly what kind of activities two people partook in when in private. Harry lost his virginity that summer, spent his fifteenth celebrating with a man he'd come to know intimately since. And even though he felt guilty for probably leaving his friends and teachers to worry, he was also angry enough to decide that - after sticking him at the Dursleys with no contact after he'd literally seen Voldemort rise and Cedric die - they kind of deserved to worry a while longer.

Bas was much older than him - probably old enough to be his father and definitely old enough that their whole relationship was very, very illegal but Harry had never met someone as absolutely gorgeous as him, as incredibly interesting as him. Bas was strong and handsome and, despite being fourteen when he'd given himself to him, Harry couldn't find it in himself to regret it. Of course, he hadn't known who his lover really was then.

Bas was tall, even when compared to the average man, and with Harry being so young and small, even for his age, he towered over him easily. Harry didn't mind it - in fact, he loved it, enjoyed the lack of power and responsibility that came with it. Harry could feel his lover's strength in his every move, restrained and controlled, and the feel of it - the idea that Bas could so easily hurt him and didn't - was absolutely addictive. That summer Harry learned what attraction was really like, how heavy desire really felt in his stomach and his groin, and decided that he definitely preferred men. In particular, he definitely preferred _older_ men.

And that was all it was at first - exploration, fun, and perhaps this was Harry's rebellious side, a quality he'd not been allowed to express anywhere before. But then Harry did the stupidest thing someone in this situation possibly could. He fell in love. And though Bas seemed fond of him, Harry only had to see him once, clothed in black, to know that he could never love him back. He didn't need to see his face to recognise him from behind that white mask, only had to see his familiar movements, his cold eyes, to know that the man stood for everything Harry stood against, and that despite his summer it would take one word from Voldemort for the man to turn against him.

It was a betrayal of a sort that Harry shouldn't have felt. They held no allegiance to each other, so why did Harry feel so betrayed? It was what he told himself late into the nights of his fifth year, unable to sleep for heartache and the stinging of his hand. It didn't help. And then he was running to the Ministry because _Voldemort had Sirius_ and he couldn't stand it if he lost the only real family he had, no way. It was stupid - who'd ever heard of riding _thestrals_ to the Ministry - but there was nothing else he could do. There was nobody to rely on.

Of course it was a trap, and of course he fell right into it. And he hated himself, because a part of him had guessed and _still_ gone, hoped against hopes that he'd see _him_ , finally speak to him after that one look in Hogsmeade that told Harry who Bas was, and told Bas - _Rabastan!_ \- that he knew. He'd put his friends into this situation, into danger, and he'd never forgive himself. And yet still he couldn't help looking as he ran, eyes roaming the unassuming, identical doors of the Department of Mysteries.

He'd been running down an isolated corridor when he was grabbed from behind and pulled through a door before he could even blink. He turned and gasped, eyes wide as he stared at Rabastan Lestrange.

Lover. Murderer.

He couldn't help the fear, the impulse to back away at the sight of the bone-white mask and frigid blue eyes. The man laughed bitterly, and as he raised a hand Harry flinched and looked down. They were silent like that for a while, until Harry finally found it in himself to look back. Rabastan had taken off his mask and was staring at him, a sad look on his face.

"You're trembling," he said, laying a hand softly on Harry's arm, and Harry let him this time, unable to look away.

"I'm scared," he admitted. The man swallowed, and Harry felt like his eyes were burning. "Are you going to kill me?" he asked, voice feather soft and gentle, like he wasn't speaking words of murder. Like he wasn't both terrified and incredibly, undeniably _happy_.

The sounds of the fight were far away, so far that Harry couldn't hear them over the sound of their breathing, and the rush of blood in his ears. They were in a bubble of their own, separate for just this moment. The stillness held, tension thickening as Rabastan said nothing, and then-

"No," he admitted. He dropped his eyes, refusing to look into Harry's eyes, and understanding spread through him like ice.

"I see," he said, and maybe he sounded like he was going to cry, but who here was going to judge? If Rabastan had wanted to humiliate him, he'd have done it long ago. "Voldemort would prefer me alive, wouldn't he?" he continued. Rabastan flinched as if he'd been struck, his fingers tightening across Harry's forearm just for a moment. Harry made a sound, and neither of them were sure if it was a laugh or a sob. "Are you going to take me to him?"

"I don't want to," Rabastan whispered. Harry shook his head hard.

"Not what I asked," he told him. "But I wouldn't expect you to choose me over him." With those words, he tried to pull himself out of his lover's - _ex-lover's_ \- grasp, but Rabastan refused to let go.

"No, Harry no," he murmured, pulling him in closer. "I don't want to choose, I _can't_ -"

"What do you want from me?" Harry asked him, gazing pleadingly up at him. "I don't understand, do you want me to choose _for_ you? Forgive you for _lying_ -"

"I didn't mean to!" Rabastan shouted. "I didn't- I mean, maybe at first I did, but Harry, you were just so _innocent_. So _fragile_ and trusting and how could I possible give you up then? After you'd looked at me like that, with those eyes of yours. Harry," he gasped, moving his hands to cup the boys face. "I don't think you know just how expressive your eyes are. I don't think you understand just how little they can hide from me, Harry."

"So what?" Harry whispered. Rabastan was growing closer, closer until their lips could touch each other if Harry just _pushed_ but-

"So what?" he said again. "What do they tell you, _Bas_? And why does it matter?" But he knew what Rabastan was saying, and the shame and pain of it was radiating out from his chest now, out and out until he felt little twinges in his ears and fingers.

Rabastan leant down and kissed him softly, once, twice. He moved up, laid a kiss on his nose and forehead and then whispered, "they can't hide anything from me, my sweet, _sweet_ boy. I knew, before even _you_ realised, just how much you loved me."

The words had an immediate affect on Harry, and he tried to push the man off him, moving wildly from side to side to free himself of the grip, but the man wrapped his arms around Harry's body and held him to his chest tightly, laying his cheek on top of Harry's head. "How then," he said, loud enough that Harry could hear it even over the sound of his struggling, "how then could I possibly give you up?"

And Harry stopped struggling, and for a minute he couldn't breathe as the tears rolled fat and heavy down his cheeks. "You _lied_ to me!" he cried. "You did! You- why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

"You know why, my lovely," Rabastan said soothingly. "I'm so sorry. I'll keep you safe, I promise. I'll keep you safe forever."

Harry calmed, and pushed way just enough to look the older man on the eye. "You can't promise that," he said hoarsely. Then again, "I don't expect you to _choose_ -"

"I am," the man interrupted. "I am. I'm choosing this. I can't help you, Harry. I can't fight with you. But I'll keep you safe, even if it costs me everything."

"It could cost you _your life_ -" Harry started, appalled, but was interrupted once again as Rabastan leant his forehead against his.

"Shhhh," he murmured, closing his eyes. "Don't worry about a thing, okay? I'll take care of you."

And Harry, despite everything, couldn't help but feel like this was the safest place in the world.


	24. Rendezvous

**Rendezvous**

Words: 720  
Crossover: Avatar: The Last Airbender  
Pairing: Combustion Man/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: Canon character death.

* * *

They didn't talk when they met - Harry didn't even know his name. He'd never been asked for his own either, so he'd never given it. Their communication was mostly nonverbal, looks and gestures and a strange sort of shared understanding. Not that their desires weren't easy to understand in the first place.

Their meetings weren't regular either. Harry lived there and was known in the bar downstairs, and _he_ was pretty infamous in the underground, made his way as an assassin. It was funny, or not really, that Harry could even stand to touch him where a few years back he'd have been outraged. He'd been naive then, willing to not only see the best in people but to divide them up into good and evil, black and white. But the real world wasn't split into innocents and Death Eaters, and Harry wasn't exactly free of all sin either.

And he was so, so attractive, and dangerous, and every time Harry was with him he felt a little more alive, a little less jaded. They didn't love each other - he didn't even know if they were capable of it - but they had the sort of companionship that came with empathy, and a whole lot of lust they weren't afraid to act on. At first they met downstairs in the bar. It was a relatively new establishment, but already had a less that savoury reputation. Gang members and criminals came regularly for meetings, and anyone looking for important people in the underworld came here to find them. It was neutral ground, and it was owned by Harry. Their dance started out slow, heavy glances and teasing touches across slivers of bare skin, warm hands on hips and lips on his nape, before they found themselves ending up in bed every time their eyes made contact.

And now this, where Harry could come into his flat and find him waiting in the dark, where he could be grabbed from behind and feel - for just a second - like he could be snapped like a twig in this strong arms, in those broad hands, and feel adrenaline course through his veins before his mind caught up. And then there would be lips at his nape, teeth on his skin leaving marks for days, and this wasn't love. It really wasn't. Instead, it was a sort of dependence that he suffered only because this man was available.

If he disappeared, Harry would still survive.

But this, touching strength so compact and contained, and realise by he could so easily be a victim of it was exhilarating, and being spread open and taken as if he was a doll was nothing short of intoxicating. He loved it, spent his days thinking about it and anticipating when he'd see the man next, when he'd be able to touch him and kiss him again. It wasn't love, Harry thought, but that was conceivably only because Harry didn't think he was _capable_ of love anymore.

This was, perhaps, the closest he was able to get to it.

The last time he saw him was no different to usual. He arrived to his rooms upstairs late at night - or maybe that was early in the morning. He'd not even managed to light any candles before strong arms were wrapping around his waist and turning him to face a tall shadowed figure. He'd smiled and kissed him without a word, and woken up the next morning alone.

And then he'd never seen him again.

He learned, much later, that the man had met his match and lost his life on a job. He didn't ask for details, but once he was in the privacy of his own home he allowed himself a brief moment to mourn him. The man had by no means been innocent - most likely, his would-be victims were rebels. Harry was, after all, fully aware of the world he lived in, and the cruelty of the Fire Nation that made a habit of employing the hitman. But he didn't think on that, instead remembering all the times they'd looked into each other's eyes across the room and seen desire and maybe - just maybe - affection. He remembered it, and mourned the loss before locking those memories away.

Life went on.


	25. Solicitous

**Solicitous**

Words: 2,156  
Crossover: Naruto  
Pairing: Gaara/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: Mentions of abuse, but really vague. Also, Harry's a seer?

* * *

Gaara ran as fast as he could, ignoring the way the villagers jumped out of his way like he was a demon possessed and the distancing shouts of guards demanding he slow down. He'd had enough of all of it - the cold glances of his father, the whispers of the guards as they eyed him with hate in their gazes, the heartless precision with which yet another assassin attacked, only to be left handicapped or, more often, dead. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stand the pressure and the anger and the pain.

And so he kept running and running until he was reaching the edges of Suna and rushing right out as if the border didn't even exist. Nobody stopped him, and Gaara knew that despite how hated he was, he wouldn't be prevented from re-entering later. He was, after all, the Kazekage's son, no matter how unfavourable he was deemed to be.

After a long while, Gaara found himself in a more mountainous area. It wasn't so far from his village that he couldn't get back there when he wanted relatively easily, but far enough that they would have to put actual effort in to track him - something they were unlikely to do. He slowed down, and started walking at a calmer pace, getting his breathing back under control as he did.

The rocks here were shiny grey as they rose out of the golden sand, surprisingly cool compared to the heat of the sand that had cooked in the desert sun all day, and it was quiet. As he climbed the steadily rising stone, Gaara came across several cave entrances, and wondered if he could stay here for a few days. Next time, he pondered vaguely, he could bring food and water - it'd be perfect then.

And then, breaking the peaceful silence like a whip, there was a quiet moan. Gaara froze still, his ears suddenly straining to pick up the direction from which the sound had come. His sand wrapped over him tightly, clinging like a second, protective skin as he tensed for danger. It came again - a small, pained gasp, and Gaara walked towards the sound to look into the dark cave entrance to his right, walking hesitantly forwards. It took his eyes a second to adjust from the bright sunlight, but eventually he realised he was looking at a small child, curled up tightly into a ball, clutching at their head like it was splitting in two.

They didn't look very dangerous. Gaara realised that looks could be deceiving - after all, look at him - but the child was so skinny, so frail, dressed in only a torn and tattered shirt and knee-length shorts, and they were so clearly in pain that Gaara honestly could not detect any danger from them. And so, despite all logic telling him to be wary, he put away the kunai that had almost unconsciously slipped into his hand, and inched forward.

The child flinched violently when Gaara finally touched them, their muscles spasming as their head snapped up, and Gaara could see for the first time their eyes. They were green, but nothing like his own. For one, they were a beautiful shade of deep green that resembled plants or jade rather than the strange blue-green of his own, and the irises were currently just an incredibly thin band around heavily dilated pupils.

The boy - for Gaara could tell now that he was indeed male - was breathing hard, his eyes seeming focused somewhere away from Gaara. He would've been offended, except the boy looked like he was dreaming or hallucinating. He seemed terrified by whatever he saw, but seemed unable to snap himself out of whatever vision he was stuck in. So Gaara did the only logical thing - he shook the boy.

He did so gently, despite all logic. Had this been anyone else, he thought, he'd have just slapped the person across the face and be done with it. But he could see the bruises around the boys wrists and even the neck, could see the barely healing cuts on his palms and the soles of his feet, and guessed that they hadn't all come from been alone on the street for too long.

This boy was too much like him, and yet so fragile and delicate that Gaara - for the first time in his life - felt something like a protective instinct rise in him. He shook a little harder when the boy didn't respond, and eventually was rewarded with sleepy, blinking eyes that slowly focused on his face. The boy gasped, eyes widening as he scrambled to back away, and Gaara immediately let go and raised his hands in a show of good faith.

There was a brief pang in his chest at the thought of the boy being scared of him, but he squashed it down and knelt before him. "Hello," he said quietly. "My name is Gaara. What is yours?"

For a long time the boy remained silent, staring at him with fearful eyes. Eventually he unwound a little, relaxing the arm around his knees ever so slightly. "Hari," he whispered.

"Hari," Gaara repeated, nodding. He paused, thinking about what to say. Did he ask about his family, his home? His instincts told him that this boy had been hurt, and had eventually run from that hurt, but-

The boy swallowed loudly. "What do you want?" he whispered hoarsely. The sentiment should have sounded a little aggressive, perhaps, but it just sounded incredibly afraid and timid to Gaara. He smiled awkwardly, unused to the expression, and sat down on the cave floor a comfortable distance from Hari.

"I was just exploring," he told the small boy. "I found you completely by accident."

There was a brief pause during which the boy surveyed Gaara. He seemed sceptical about the redhead's motive, but eventually nodded in acceptance. Gaara smiled again, unsure, but eventually pushed on. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Hari stiffened, suddenly seeming a lot more unsure. Gaara sighed. "I'm not going to hurt you," he reassured the skittish boy. "But you're clearly not from around here. You look foreign."

The boy nodded slowly. "I- I'm _not_ from here," he confirmed timidly, looking at Gaara from under his long black hair. "I'm from A-amegakure." He seemed unwilling to remember, and Gaara could understand why. The village this boy came from was a frequent battleground, being located between three large countries as it was, and Ame ninja didn't have the best reputation. Gaara wondered if this child wasn't just yet another war orphan, and yet he found himself scrapping the idea right there and then. Hari may have been a victim of the constant fighting in Amegakure, but Gaara's instincts told him something else was the cause of his pain.

He sat silently a while, enjoying the silence of the afternoon desert and the quiet, calming breaths of the boy next to him. It took a while, but eventually Hari relaxed until his muscles were no longer tense, and he watched Gaara with steady green eyes. He seemed unsure still, but confident that Gaara wouldn't hurt him, and it made the redhead feel a little warm inside. He smiled, and for the first time felt completely at ease with the affection he gave. That was strange in itself, because if life had taught Gaara anything it was that people were cruel - even the ones that claimed to love you. And yet this boy, with his large eyes and delicate wrists seemed so fragile that, for the first time in his short life, Gaara felt the vicious urge to protect.

He shuffled a little closer, and Hari watched him carefully as he did. "You've been hurt, haven't you," he whispered gently. There was nobody around to overhear, and yet the young Suna ninja felt like he'd break something intangible between them if he spoke too loudly, like he'd ruin the small bubble of calm that surrounded them. Hari watched him carefully, mute, before he slowly nodded. There was another stretch of silence before the younger boy shifted, wrapping his arms around his thighs instead of his knees so as to see his companion better.

"My parents died when I was one," he said quietly. "I lived with my aunt and uncle, but they hated me. My aunt always used to tell me-" he broke off, raising one fisted hand to rub at his eyes, but he no years fell. "My aunt always told me that my father wasn't really my father, that my mother was a bad, evil woman who laid with a demon. The devil's child, she used to call me."

Gaara waited a little longer, just in case Hari wanted to say anything more, but the boy remained silent. He nodded to himself, smiling grimly. "There is a monster inside me," he said softly, but firmly. "Everyone knows, and everyone hates me for it. I killed my mother, the only person who ever loved me, when I was born. The only reason my father let's me live is so that he can use me as a weapon if he ever needs one." He paused, and looked back over at Hari. The boy stared at him, and his eyes held a strange sort of understanding, of companionship. It gave Gaara the courage to smile again, and shuffle ever closer until they both sat shoulder to shoulder.

"You're not a monster," Hari whispered. "Just like my mother wasn't evil. I didn't believe that before, but I know that now. I know they were wrong, just like your father is wrong." He paused, then he tentatively leant his head on Gaara's shoulder. The older boy immediately stiffened, unwillingly to move - as if Hari was a cat that would take his comfort elsewhere if he gave him reason to, but eventually he relaxed. "I..." Hari's voice trembled. "I can do things," he whispered. "Or- or _see_ things. I don't always understand them but..." He trailed off, curling into himself and Gaara almost as if by instinct. "They always come true," he revealed eventually.

Gaara nodded. "That's what was happening?" he asked gently. "Before?"

Harry nodded, and they both fell silent once more. It felt like a small haven to Gaara, a place with a person that didn't symbolise any danger or negativity. They were both safe here, both loved, both tucked away carefully from the world that would see them hurt. The sun beyond their cave lowered in the sky, replacing the clear blue with a million shades of oranges and red and purple. Gaara watched silently, the setting sun cooling the air around them until he was almost cold.

The heat of Hari's small body next to him seemed more prominent now, his skin marginally warmer where they touched than everywhere else. Gaara looked down, almost sure he'd see Hari asleep, but found him instead looking at Gaara with a surprisingly soft look in his eyes. There was affection there, unlike any he'd ever seen before. Affection and care that required nothing from him, expected nothing from him. It made his cheeks flush pink, and he looked away again shyly. He'd never experienced anything like this before, but he didn't dislike it. It felt like a break, a rest from all the tightness in his heart, the demands on his mind and body.

He felt more like himself than he'd felt in a long time, like he was finally able to remove a mask that had been squeezing his face into a certain expression. He felt like he'd been saved, lest that mask had formed his face permanently into that of a heartless, mindless killing machine, and it was all because of this little boy simply being here.

He looked back, and Hari was still looking at him. This time the boy smiled softly, beautifully, and Gaara felt the urge to smile back. He did, widely, and though it felt a little awkward and ugly on his face, the way Hari's eyes brightened made him feel like he was perfect regardless.

It was dark now, much darker than Gaara would have preferred before starting his way back, but he didn't think it was safe for Hari to stay out here. "Come," he said softly, pulling away a little.

The boy's eyes widened. "Where to?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. Gaara thought for a second he seemed like a little rabbit or something, but he shook his head to get the thought out.

"I'm taking you home."

Hari seemed confused. "It's that okay?" he asked fretfully. "What about your father? I'm not sure if I should, I-"

He was interrupted by Gaara grabbing his arm and pulling him up. "Trust me?" he whispered, and after a long stare, Harry nodded.

"Okay," he mumbled. Gaara smiled again.

"I promise I'll keep you safe."


	26. Intended

**Intended**

Words: 1,392  
Pairing: Regulus Black/Harry Potter  
Beta: None  
Warnings: None.

* * *

He didn't meet Harry until he was in his fifth year at Hogwarts. The reason for that wasn't because the youngest Potter had just recently turned eleven, but rather that he'd always been sickly and frail, and thus had not been able to attend Hogwarts until he turned fourteen years old.

He was beautiful - pale skinned from spending so long indoors and little more than skin and bones from such an extended illness, but his eyes were so bright, and his smile so open and happy, that the only way Regulus could think to describe him was beautiful. He looked little like his brother. Their hair was the same tangled mess, but Harry radiated a kindness that James simply lacked. His eyes were a green unshared by his parents or sibling, and when Regulus first set eyes on him he was trying to drag his chest onto the train, his arms straining as they failed to exert the necessary force. His brother didn't seem to notice, catching up with friends he'd probably seen over the summer anyway, but Harry didn't seem to care, or indeed expect any aid from his older brother.

Regulus watched a while, a strange pleasure blooming in his chest as he watched the delicate boy pull to little effect. He wondered what this feeling meant, but even as he entertained his own musings he knew really. His mother had always told him, ever since he was old enough to understand, that Blacks had a gift. ' _We are allowed to know those who could complete us, Regulus,_ ' she'd tell him as she sat by his bedside. ' _We know our other halves as soon as we set eyes on them. It is a gift bestowed upon our family only - do not spurn Magic when you find yours by refusing to accept it._ '

And as he watched, he wondered why anyone would. Harry was beautiful to him, his magic reaching for Regulus as he stepped ever closer in a strange sort of daze, and he could imagine no greater happiness than loving the wonderful person before him now. He swallowed hard as he came to stand by Harry, and reached out a hand.

"Hello," he said. His voice came out embarrassingly high and he coughed, knowing his cheeks were reddening. "Hello," he said again, smiling slightly as Harry looked up in shock. "I'm Regulus."

The smaller boy seemed surprised that anyone had noticed him, never mind that that someone was even talking to him, but smiled awkwardly in reply anyway. "My name is Harry," he replied, reaching to take his hand. His voice was gentle, soft, like he never raised it, but it had a quiet power to it that he found surprisingly attractive. Regulus curled his fingers around the boy's more confidently, and was inordinately pleased to notice the faint blush that alighted on Harry's cheeks.

His hands were warm and smooth, and Regulus almost didn't let go. He certainly didn't want to. But after a beat Harry smile turned a little awkward, as if he wasn't sure whether or not he was allowed to take his hand back, so Regulus released him. Without warning he bent and took hold of the handle of Harry's chest, gesturing for the boy to step onto the train before him.

"Oh, you don't have to," Harry said, pleasantly surprised, but stepped over the threshold anyway. Regulus grinned at him, heaving the trunk onto the carriage behind him effortlessly.

"I want to," he reassured. He was aware, as he lead Harry to an empty compartment, that he was acting most unlike himself - more open about his emotions, less restrained in the way that his pureblood mother had taught him to behave. He wouldn't dare act this way off only for the disapproving curl that would shadow her lips if she ever saw him like this, but he thought the situation was exceptional in this case, and was sure his mother would agree with him this once. Harry was special, it only made sense to treat him as such, and to allow him some liberties even if they were only in the first instances of their relationship.

Regulus stashed the trunks into the overhead carriers as Harry slid the doors shut, and they both took seats opposite each other Just as they settled, the doors slid open again. Regulus' expression sharpened when he noticed James Potter in all his glory, leaving casually against the open doorway. He crinkled his nose faintly at the messy hair and untidy robes, inelegant and not at all charming like dear Harry's, and waited for whatever tirade was sure to follow. True to expectation, James crossed his arms over his chest and scowled down at his younger brother as if Regulus was not even present.

What are you doing, Harry?" he demanded. The younger Potter tilted his head questioningly, eyes wide in innocence, so James elaborated, waving a hand in Regulus' direction still without even saving him a glance. "With him."

Harry shrugged. "I made a friend," he told James, seeming almost proud of the achievement, as if he didn't understand the issue. Regulus felt surprisingly warmed at the thought that Harry already considered him as such, but didn't say a word as Sirius barged in to stand next to his best friend. Regulus imagined strongly that the third and fourth members of their party were standing behind the two troublemakers, and indeed upon looking found Lupin's brown hair peeking over his brother's shoulder. Presumably, Pettigrew was to short to be seen.

"My little brother?" Sirius exclaimed incredulously. "He's a Slytherin, Harry!"

The younger boy merely shrugged again, as if he truly didn't understand the issue. "What does that matter, Sirius?" he replied. "It means nothing to me."

"It _should_ mean he's evil, Harry," James said loudly. "Slytherins are just bad news. I thought you'd realised after all the things I've told you."

"And yet," Harry interrupted, his voice suddenly a lot colder, "the 'evil Slytherin' was still a far sight more caring than you. You saw both Sirius _and_ Remus only _yesterday_ , and I asked you no less than five times to help me get my trunk onto the train. Regulus only had to _see_ me before he helped."

James looked at him silently, frowning heavily, but turned and stalked away silently. Sirius followed him without a backwards glance, but Remus smiled apologetically before sliding the doors shut again gently and walking away with Peter in tow.

Harry smiled at Regulus apologetically. "I'm sorry about him. I love my brother, really, but he can be a little... biased." He shrugged shyly, as if he wasn't sure how Regulus would react. The taller by merely smiled back calmly.

"It's okay," he added when Harry still seemed ill at ease. "I'm used to them, to be honest, but, well..."

"What is it?" Harry's eyes were wide on concern, and Regulus thought he looked especially adorable like that. Like a kitten. He stifled the smile that arose at the thought, and resisted the urge to coo as he shook his head noncommittally.

"I don't want to come in between you and your family, Harry," he admitted. "I know what that can be like, and I-"

"Don't worry about it!" Harry exclaimed, then blushed when he realised he'd practically shouted at Regulus. "Don't worry about it," he repeated again, much more quietly. "James is... he'll moan for a bit, but he'll come around. He's just a little unused to this, that's all." He fidgeted with his sleeves pulling them further down until they covered his hands to make sweater paws. Regulus wanted nothing more than to cuddle him, but instead folded his arms and leant back.

Harry didn't seem to realise. "It's just," he continued earnestly, "it's always been James telling me all about Hogwarts, you know? I've never really met many people outside the family, so I've always just had his stories about what it's like. Now that I can experience it for myself, I think he feels a little... redundant. But he loves me, he'll calm down."

Regulus nodded, and they sat in silence for a while before the taller boy finally cracked, standing up to rummage on his trunk. "How about some chess," he said as he pulled out his set. Harry smiled beatifically.

"I'd love to."


	27. Home

**Home**

Words: 1,517  
Crossover: Twilight  
Pairing: Alec/Harry Potter  
Beta: None.  
Warnings: None.

* * *

"Do hurry, Jane," Alec drawled to his sister, crossing his arms across his chest. He looked bored, but she knew him better than that.

"Missing your dear ' _Ry_ ' already?" she replied, smirking. He scowled, and she laughed in return, the sound crystal clear and beautiful. He wanted to keep frowning, but his sister didn't often laugh like that, and it bought an answering smile to his face.

"That's Harry to you, sister," he said regardless. Then, relaxing as she turned away he added, "so what if I am?"

His eyes softened without him realising as his mind wandered to his beloved, the only person he loved as much as his darling sister. Nobody understood him like Harry, who has been turned in his childhood just as he and his twin.

The day seemed to last forever, and yet still fly by after that. When he tried to recall the way back, it seemed to have devolved into a dull haze of boring countryside and the occasional suburbs despite his brilliant and vampiric memory. It didn't matter. As soon as they arrived at Volterra Alec rushed through the gates and was immediately pounced on by another of his kind.

His arms wrapped automatically around the smaller boy's back, holding his delicately built body tightly to his own. "I was not absent for _that_ long, Ry," he murmured after a while. Harry hummed, his arms tightening for a small second and then loosening enough to allow them to look each other in the face.

"Doesn't matter," Harry replied, pouting rather adorably. "I still missed you."

Jane chuckled from behind Alec, and Harry's smile turned sheepish. "I missed you too, Jane," he told her earnestly. She shrugged, never losing her smile, and turned to Alec.

"I'll report to Aro, don't worry." And before Alec could say a word, her face morphed into a terrifying glare - her default expression - as she whirled around to stalk into the main chambers.

"Thank you!" Harry called after her in his stead, grinning when she raised a hand in reply, and turned to face his other half. "Come!" he said, pulling on Alec's hand. "I finished the painting!"

As they walked - keeping to a slow, leisurely pace, Alec surveyed his little love. He seemed happy, his cheeks flushed a pale red that indicated that he'd had a meal recently. His long black curls wrapped tightly in a braid, but a few shorter strands were already coming loose around his pale, beautiful face. He looked positively cherubic, which wasn't really surprising considering what they were - even Jane looked like an angel - Jane, who was more a demon than anything else. Alec loved his sister dearly, but he was not so blind that he could not see her cruelty for what it was.

And yet Harry looked angelic even to his eyes, which were so used to the beauty of vampires that it seemed the norm - humans an ugly, deformed cousin next to the average that was their kind. Alec was never the sort to lie to himself - it made life unnecessarily difficult, and when one had lived as long as he had it became tiresome, so he was rather willing to admit his obvious bias. He strongly suspected that what he saw when he looked at Harry was something wholly different from what others saw, and yet it didn't matter. To him, there was nobody more handsome and sweet than his dear beloved.

Harry was nowhere as old as he was. In fact, he was the youngest of their coven in more than appearance, but he was still old enough that the body of an eleven year old was uncomfortable for him, and young enough to still miss his humanity like it was a physical ache inside him. He was alike to the twins in more than just bodily appearance in that he too had been a witch before he'd been turned, though he'd not known it. Alec had found him abandoned and dying whilst on a mission in Spain, and had immediately decided to turn him.

Harry turned to smile at him as he lead him by the hand into the comfortable room he'd claimed as his space, a knowing glint in his eye. The room was - in name - Harry's, and so was littered with canvases, sketchbooks and heavy tomes opened to random pages. However Alec spent so much of his time here with Harry that there were clear signs of his own inhabitancy also - his half-finished novel on the coffee table, his numerous journals lined up on their own shelf in Harry's bookcase, his clothing in the tall wooden armoire in one corner.

Alec smiled back at his sweetheart, drawing him closer and entwining their fingers more firmly together. "Where is this painting then?" he asked, nudging his love gently with his shoulder. Harry's eyes practically lit up as he pulled him over to an easel in the corner.

"I was stuck for a while, you know?" he commented as he neared the painting with Alec in tow. "I couldn't remember, but I think I got it right. I hope I did, anyway."

Alec didn't say a word, knowing exactly how important this was to Harry, who'd only ever known hate and hardship before Alec had found him on the streets of Barcelona. The younger vampire smiled again, little shy as he reached with his free hand to grab a hold of the plain white sheet. There was a slight hesitance in his movement before he finally pulled it down, the thin sheet pooling on the floor to reveal an incredibly delicate, vibrant painting of a young, laughing woman. She was beautiful, Alec would readily admit that. Her eyes were an intense shade of green, like leaves in the summer sunshine, and her hair was the red of fire and coral.

Alec may have gaped a little, his eyes roaming over the fine features of a woman he'd never met, and noted the similarities between her and his beloved - the shape of their eyes, the colour of their lips, the slight upturn to their noses. His eyes automatically slid over to Harry to compare, and he found the vampire staring listlessly into the painted face, a sad smile curling his lips. He looked wistful, and though Alec could not understand (he'd never had anything to tie him to the human world, nobody to love before this but his sister, who came with him), he sympathised.

He took a small step closer, and gripped his fingers a little tighter around Harry's. ' _I'm still here_ ', he wanted to say. ' _I'll never leave you_ '. But instead he just held on and let Harry think his complicated thoughts.

He turned back to the painting, and wondered what her name was. Harry couldn't remember, said he only remembered her as ' _mother_ ', but Alec felt somehow like her name ought to be written into her features, into her smile, like she _was_ her name, and her name was her. He wondered up potential names, but they all sounded wrong to him - something in the way the hair fell over her shoulders, the way her eyes sparkled, the way her head was positioned, made none of them fit.

Eventually Harry let out a long sigh, as if he'd become unburdened with a suddenness that made it easier to breathe, easier to think. It didn't matter that Harry _didn't_ need to breathe - the feeling was still there, even as he turned to cuddle close to Alec's body, turning his nose into the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent as if it'd anchor him in place. Alec just wrapped his arms around the slight body, feeling as if his heart was full to the brim with affection and love for the little vampire he held so dear.

"Feel better?" he murmured into the mess of hair atop Harry's head, and the other boy hummed contently.

"Very," he sighed. "It was bothering me, but now that it's done I feel... free." He turned his arms about Alec's waist, holding tight even as he pulled his face away enough to look at the taller boy.

"Will you read to me, Alec?" he asked tentatively, always so shy and uncertain, as if Alec could ever say no to him. It made him so angry, burned him with rage and the need to find the bastards who'd done this to Harry, who'd hurt him and hurt him and then left him to die.

But now was not the time, so Alec promised himself ' _one day, eventually_ ', and kissed Harry gently on the forehead. "But of course, my dearest," he chuckled, and lead the younger vampire out of the studio and into their private room.

Later, as they lay on the sofa with Harry wrapped in Alec's comforting embrace and listening to his sweet voice, the taller of the two looked at his beloved, and thought that, indeed, though his mother had been more than beautiful, even _she_ didn't compare to Harry.


	28. Asleep

**Asleep**

Words: 2,606  
Pairing: Salazar Slytherin/Harry Potter  
Beta: None.  
Warnings: Kidnapping and character death.

* * *

Salazar found him at the top of the Northern tower, staring listlessly out into the dark. There were no stars, and the moon was a thin silver-white sickle hidden behind dark clouds. He was shivering, his frail shoulders trembling under the thin material of his nightshirt, and Salazar couldn't help the concern rising up inside him. It was cold enough that he suspected it might snow, cold enough that he could feel the wind biting at his nose and cheeks until they were flushed red, and here his lover with only the flimsiest piece of cloth to shield him from harsh winds.

"Harry," he called, striding forward, and a touch to the delicate back verified what he'd unfortunately suspected already - the man hadn't even cast a warming charm to shield against the cold.

"It's freezing out here," he murmured, his brow creasing as he failed to garner a response. "What are you doing?"

Finally Harry shrugged, just a slight movement of small shoulders. His mouth worked upwards in a mockery of a smile, looking far too sad to even pretend to fool Salazar. The older man's frown deepened, but he was unable to think about anything but the weather, and how his lover might catch something. "Come inside, love," he whispered encouragingly. He lowered his voice and repeated himself, this time hissing in the language of serpents, " _come inside where it's warmer_."

The Parseltongue seemed to snap Harry out of whatever fey mood had befallen him, because he straightened suddenly and shook his head. "I think I prefer it out here, actually," he said softly, but his voice was firm and Salazar knew immediately that his lover would not be swayed. The man was stubborn like that. So instead he removed his outer cloak and draped it over Harry, using the excuse to wrap his arms around the shorter man and pull him to against his body. Harry automatically nestled his head underneath Salazar's chin, the two of them slotting together perfectly, and they stood in silence as soft, pure white snow began to fall.

Salazar bent his neck to press his lips against the skin where Harry's ear meet his head, scenting the wild fragrance of berries and flowers that clung to his beloved, and suddenly Harry let out a shuddering breath, as if he were crying.

He froze suddenly as the peaceful atmosphere crashed and his heart began to race in panic. He'd never felt so foolish as he did when, upon turning Harry in his arms to see his face, he indeed found the wet tracks that betrayed Harry's tears to him. He'd thought them to be enjoying a brief moment of peace, of affectionate proximity, and yet he'd read the situation so badly that Salazar began to doubt other moments too, other conversations and late nights spent with Harry's back pressed to his chest. He'd imagined then too that they were happy, _content_ , but had Harry been upset then too? How long had his little wizard been unhappy, and how terrible a lover was he to not have noticed?

Harry was crying louder now, biting his lip to keep the sobs at bay, and Salazar felt so utterly useless, not knowing what to do. Eventually he just pulled Harry's face into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly about the slim shoulders and pressing a kiss to wild black curls. "What's wrong, dear one?" he murmured, rocking them slightly from side to side where they stood. "Why do you cry?"

Harry's fingers were tightly entwined with his robes, but as Salazar spoke he balled up a hand into a feeble fist and hit him - or pushed him really, in the chest. And then came the whisper that froze his very soul. "I can't do this anymore."

He felt as if his heart skipped a beat, as if his blood raced faster than ever possible though his veins. He felt warm despite the cold wind, and he prayed that he'd heard wrong. He must have heard wrong, he told himself. Harry could never leave him, would never leave him. Harry loved him, more than his own life - he could not possibly have said what Salazar thought he'd said. And so the taller wizard asked, hesitantly, "What did you say?"

Harry took a deep breath, clearly calming himself before pushing away from Salazar's embrace. "I said," he says, his voice hoarse and quiet but sure, so sure, "I _can't_ do this anymore."

Salazar stared at Harry, reaching a hand up to pull a stray lock of hair behind the delicately shaped ear. Harry closed his eyes and winced, almost as if Salazar was hurting him but allowed it nonetheless. The older wizard swallowed a few times, then laughed hollowly. "I don't understand," he admitted, as if it were a great burden to reveal his shortcomings.

Harry's face practically morphed with a suddenness that caught Salazar off guard until he was practically snarling, and he pulled himself away from Salazar's lingering touch with a violence that shook the wizard. "You don't understand?" he asked incredulously. "You don't _understand_?" And he pushed at Salazar again forcing back a step. "I can't stand it! I can't live like this anymore!" He seemed incensed, his eyes flashing green with fire and energy like it hadn't for a long time. Salazar wondered why he hadn't noticed that either, but the thought quickly passed as he too became angry.

"What are you talking about, Harry!" he exclaimed. "You have everything you need, everything you want! What are you so lacking, what is troubling you so much that you'd rather this than _talk to me_?"

"Talk to you?" Harry's face darkened. "I've done nothing but talk to you! I've tried being kind, I've tried being civil, and I've even tried to threaten you, but you won't _listen_!" Where before Harry had been crying in sorrow, he seemed more prepared to curse Salazar now.

He gazed at Harry, a realisation dawning inside him, and Harry seemed to read his face right, because he glared. "Don't you dare pretend not to know what I am speaking of," he said darkly. "You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about!"

And though he did not want to admit it, Salazar indeed knew exactly what bothered his lover so.

He sighed, as if Harry had sorely disappointed him or let him down. "So big a fuss, over such a little matter?" he said, annoyed, but it only seemed to incense Harry further.

"Little, is it?" he practically growled, freezing in place like it was the only thing keeping him under control. "You think I don't know what you've stashed underneath the castle, _beloved_?"

And Salazar froze, because how on earth did Harry know? He'd been so careful, so discreet in his doings, that he'd been sure nobody else knew of his plan. He'd taken every precaution he possibly could, and yet-

"How?" He asked. Harry's eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"You know," he started conversationally, and yet his tone was absolutely frigid, "despite all of your intelligence and smarts, you've always had a tendency to underestimate others, and overestimate yourself."

"What in the name of Hecate is that supposed to mean-" Salazar started angrily, only to be cut off.

"I mean," Harry interrupted, "that you like to forget you're not the only one who speaks Parseltongue unless it suits you. I mean that you seem to think nobody will notice your absences, coupled with pathetic excuses every time you return. Do you think we're all _idiots_ , Salazar?"

There was an awkward silence as Salazar tried to think, tried to speak, but failed. Harry watched him with a strange sort of vindictive, righteous pleasure, and Salazar irked at the all-knowing nod of Harry's head.

"Yes," he whispered, as if Salazar had proven his every suspicion true. "I imagined so." He took a step back, gazing at Salazar as if he was already far away. He looked as if his face would once again crumple under the force of tears, but then Harry breathed in hard and blinked long and slow.

"I think, Salazar," he murmured, "that I'll be leaving tonight. There is nothing more to be said here." And he turned, his back and shoulders looking a lot less fragile and a lot firmer now, despite that they suffered the same cold under the same thin material. Salazar watched, silent, as Harry walked away from him without once looking back, and felt a strange sort of crushing in his chest.

He couldn't let Harry leave him, but he had never felt more powerless. Harry knew him, knew his words and his expressions, and knew what lay behind them no matter his Salazar tried to conceal. None of his words, none of his promises would do any good here - Harry would see right through them all.

He looked down from the tower on which he stood alone, and watched as the snow began to fall. He imagined Harry, rummaging through their shared rooms and slowly removing all the pieces of his existence from the room. He imagined Harry wiping himself from Salazar's reality like one would wipe a spill of milk from the table, leaving no evidence that anything had ever been to the contrary. He imagined returning to that room as the sun climbed it's way to a new day, and finding a room that told naught of their shared life, and abhorred the very thought. A strange desperation overcame him, and perhaps later Salazar would think back on the emotion and name it madness. Now, however, he was caught helplessly in its tangled web, and in a sudden rush he hurried his way down to the dungeons.

Harry had changed, his robes now a thicker, warmer black meant for winter daywear. His cloak lay to the side - a gift from Salazar, sometime a year ago. He'd packed his belongings into his small satchel, and was just lacing his boots up when Salazar entered the darkened room.

His back was still to the taller man, and the teacher did not hesitate in raising his smooth black wand at the unprotected back. Harry must have heard him, because he turned with a small, almost imperceptible frown. "Salazar?" he said. "What-"

His eyes widened at the sight of the wand pointing at him. He opened his mouth, no doubt to discourage the man from whatever he was thinking, but the regretful shaking of his head made him desist. Harry looked so lost then, so young, that Salazar was reminded painfully of the young man he'd met so many years ago, of the late night talks and quiet, comfortable dancing in the privacy of their quarters.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he meant it. Harry's eyes darkened, his pupils dilating, and looking into them Salazar could almost pretend it was a look of attraction and not panic. Want, and not fear.

There was a flash of light, and then he was gathering the frozen body to his chest, murmuring promises of love and care softly to the unresponsive man as he lifted Harry into his arms. After a second's consideration, he flicked his wand to hover the pack behind him, and made his way to the chamber Harry had only alluded to knowing the existence of. He'd had concerns, before - setting Parseltongue passwords meant the other founders couldn't get in, but it did not stop Harry from discovering it - Harry, who was by far the most perceptive of them all anyway, especially when it concerned Salazar.

Of course, that was no longer an issue now. There was a potion he had in mind, an idea forming just as he'd induced sheep in his lover and held his still, limp body. It'd take him maybe a day's work to brew, and then his Harry would never be able to leave him again. He laid the smaller body down with all the gentleness of a gardener handling rare and valuable flowers, and covered the body with a thin blanket before getting to work.

Harry awoke twice during the process, both times attempting to stumble off the cot he lay on and potentially leave, but both times Salazar managed to catch him just before he fell and return him to his calmer state. He woke for the last time just as Salazar was bottling the potion in question, but this time he didn't move. Salazar sighed and went to sit by him, running his fingers through the beautiful, thick black locks in as soothing a motion as he could manage. Harry looked at him, his green eyes almost luminous in the dim, flickering light of the torches, and they stayed like that for a time that seemed to almost last forever.

The older wizard smiled in what he hoped was a comforting expression, and reached calmly for the freshly-brewed potion. Just as he went to un-stopper it, he felt hesitant fingers on his wrist. He looked back questioningly, and Harry's mouth had twisted sadly. "Please," he whispered, so beautiful, so scared.

Salazar looked on in silence as Harry gazed, beseeching but already defeated, until eventually the younger man dropped his eyes. Still saying nothing, he reached behind Harry's head to encourage his pink mouth open, and without preamble poured the viscous liquid in.

"Sleep, dearest," he murmured, and watched contently as bright green eyes turned delicately hazy before finally shutting.

Harry never saw the daylight again. He barely woke again, only opening his eyes for the brief hours that Salazar could escape and feed him the antidote, but by the end of their time together Salazar would once again send him off to sleep.

He tried to fight, at first. Salazar tried to explain why it was necessary, that he was only doing this for them, for their love, but time and time again the younger man would try to hit Salazar, or run when his back was turned. One memorable time he'd tried to feed the potion meant for him to Salazar, and had almost managed except that the continued unconsciousness for such long periods of time had made him week and slow. Salazar could easily defend himself.

However, despite that Harry would potentially do him harm, Salazar never held it against his lover. Instead he tried his best to make the younger wizard understand, and then to hold him when he couldn't. Eventually, despite his best efforts, Harry just became desensitised. He'd sit there, completely unresponsive as Salazar tried to talk to him. It was frustrating, and outside of his time in the Chamber it pushed him to increasingly violent lengths. He began being more and more open about his distaste for impure blood, his dislike turning to hate until the founders would not abide by his purist ways. His friends, who'd once stood in solidarity by him as he mourned the loss of his lover, now stood behind him as they pushed him out of Hogwarts castle, his home.

Though he tried several times to return and see Harry one last time, to talk to him before he himself passed, he never managed to retrieve Harry. The man remained in his spellbound state until Salazar died of old age and loneliness, and even then Harry slept in the chamber without ageing, looking as young as he once had when he and Salazar had been _happy_. But even though he looked like he was merely asleep, by the time a young Tom Riddle found his way into the chamber on whispered promises of power, Harry Potter could no longer be awoken.


End file.
